[IC] The Sunday Group

[Penny]

Everyone has a story. You know the story. The one you Aunt dusts off every Thanksgiving when the wine is flowing and the sense is going? The one about the old house on the end of the street where flowers never grow and maybe old Sweeny killed his wife and hid her in the drywall. Or perhaps it was the time your grandmother swore that she saw something floating in a broken window grinning at her. Maybe it was you. Maybe you heard strange voices out in the woods, or glimpsed something in the fog out at sea one night. Maybe you saw the same pale woman everywhere you went for a week and you swear the bitch had no reflection.

There are thousands of stories like these and they all have one things in common. Ninety nine percent of them are bullshit. Of course ninety nine percent certainty means that one time in a hundred you’re dead.

There are things out there in dark. Sometimes they leave us alone, hell maybe most times, but sometimes the snatch up babies and sacrifice them in stone circles. Sometimes the feed on the minds of the living. Sometime they set fires for the joy of watching people burn.

Who do you turn to if something like that happens? Cops can’t help, write you a prescription and ship you to a mental hospital if you even mentioned it. You need professionals, and frankly there aren’t that many people stupid enough to put their heads in that particular noose. People who know, know enough to be fucking terrified. Usually they find the deepest darkest hole they can climb into.

Want to turn to the sort of broken desperadoes still stupid enough to stand in the line of supernatural fire? Good luck with that.

[Penny]

Part One - Masks

Chicago - Autumn 2016

The tape recorder clicked to life, it's dark black wheels slowly spinning the tape from one spool to another, etching them with the memory of sound. It was an old fashioned sort of thing. These days they had expensive equipment with sound compression, auto to text transcription and every modern convenience, but death was, at least in Ellie Tregellan’s learned opinion, a conservative business.

“Are you sure you want to stay for this?” she asked one the room’s other occupants and not for the first time. Her voice was cultured and held the slightest hint of a foreign accent, perhaps Welsh or Cornish, but long diluted by prolonged exposure to America. Ellie was an attractive woman, fair of skin and dark of hair with the athletic build of a woman who jogs or swims regularly. Gold framed rectangular spectacles sat on the bridge of her freckled nose giving her a professorial quality. So far she was fighting that mid thirties slide into middle age on all fronts. Two other women shared the small sterile room with her. One was a small mousy brunette with watery eyes, pinch faced and world weary, the other one was, of course, a corpse.

The room itself was a wonder of the modern medical mind. Sleek stainless sinks and table tops lined the walls, instruments of all kinds were stacked neatly in their places waiting to be put to use, touch screen monitors hung by adjustable arms, waiting for data. In the wall a large air recycler worked tirelessly to whisk away the melange of unpleasant odors and replace them with cool crisp recycled air. The effect was vaguely unsettling, as if by removing the expected odors it separated the examination room from consensus reality.

“Y.. yes.. I need to know that I, you know, did everything I could,” the brunette responded. Ellie did know, she had been here many times, with people just like this woman. Sometimes people just didn’t want to believe it, death was a hard thing to accept.

The brunette looked a little green in the face and Ellie quietly upgraded the likelihood of the woman throwing up to seventy five percent. Both living women were dressed in scrubs. The brunette wore an ill fitting set of a light blue color printed with the words - Chicago Forensic Institute - as well as a matching face mask, hair net and booties. Ellie also wore scrubs, but hers were blue and black in the fashion of a Star Trek medical officer, complete with pin on silver insignia from ThinkGeek. She had been told in no uncertain terms that her favorite set, bright pink and emblazoned with the words ‘I see dead people’, were inappropriate. The face mask and hairnet were standard though. The corpse on the steel table was naked, as was the custom, it’s only decoration where the spattering of gore where its right eye had been and the neat sutures which marked a curious death in the modern age.

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said skeptically and pulled on a set of blue non latex exam gloves with a snap.

“This is Dr Eleanor Tregellan, performing autopsy on Cassandra Holt, previous autopsies performed by Drs Alexander Cameron and Roger Brioche. Miss Madeline Holt, next of kin, present as an observer.”

Ellie picked up a scalpel and began to stalk around the unmoving corpse on the table.

“Subject is a caucasian female late twenties to early thirties,” she noted.

“Her name is Cassie,” Madeline breathed, tears welling up in her eyes. Ellie paused in her examination and arched an eyebrow in gentle rebuke. Madeline fell silent and wipes at her tears.

“Close range gunshot wound to the right anterior of the head with significant cranial penetration. Point of entry, anterior head, just above right occipital lobe,” Elliespoke with practiced detachment, leaning close to press on the edge of the horrific wound with the dull edge of the scalpel.

“Bullet appears to have caused patchy skull fractures, patchy subdural hemorrhage, generalized subarachnoid hemorrhage and extensive damage to brain tissue, consistent with small caliber deformed round recovered during previous autopsy. Generalized zone of soot around entry point, consistent with a close range discharge.”

Ellie looked up at the quietly weeping Madeline.

“In conjunction with the positive GSR on the victim's right hand, this would tend to suggest the wound was self inflicted.”

“NO!” Madeline snapped through her sniffles, suddenly furious.

“That’s what the others said but Cassie would never kill herself, never!” Upset she might be but the woman’s voice rang with conviction. Ellie sighed inwardly, so much for dinner plans.

“Oookay,” Ellie replied, drawing the word out like an exhalation, then she lay her scalpel at the top of the Y shaped incision in the naked Cassie’s chest and began to cut. The room filled with the smell of formaldehyde and death as the corpse opened like a flower. Madeline made a choking gagging sound and Ellie made a gesture towards one of the large sinks against the wall. A moment later Ellie’s predicted vomiting odds rose to one hundred percent.

Almost two hours later Ellie emerged from the autopsy room her hands still pink from from the vigorous scrubbing. The well lit hallway was empty at this time of night, uncomfortable chairs lined the institutional beige wall, interspersed with occasional artificial plants to brighten the place up. Madeline looked up from the cup of cold cafeteria coffee, her eyes desperate and pleading. She stiffened as she met Ellie’s gaze.

“You found something.” It was not a statement, the woman was suddenly more energised than at any point since she had called to ask for the third autopsy. Ellie looked around the empty hallway making sure they were alone and then she reached into her pocket and produced a printed business card.

“Get some sleep Miss Holt, but in the morning, I think you should meet with some associates of mine." Without another word Ellie turned and began to walk down the hallway. Shivering with relief Melissa Holt look down at the business card and read the words in large neat font. The Sunday Group.

______________________________________
From: [e-mail]
To: [e-mail]; [e-mail]; [e-mail]; [e-mail]; [e-mail]; [e-mail]
CC:
BCC: [e-mail]
Subject: Morning Meeting

The prelim I spoke about yesterday panned out after all. Meeting the client 8am tomorrow. Better pack a travel bag, I can feel the miles on this one.

E
______________________________________

[POOHEAD189]

Manny opened his eyes slightly, gazing around his cramped apartment without moving a muscle. Years spent hunting things most people didn't believe in gave one a healthy paranoia. He learned never to groan or even breathe differently once he awoke. It freaked out more than one woman, he recalled with a snort of amusement.

As soon as he had moved here, he knew it would be a bit less roomy than his last place. Apartment sizes were often larger with numbers, and they got progressively smaller the more reliant on letters they were. Apartment A's were usually shitty basement apartments, private restroom optional. When he was sure that no one was in here with him, he leaped out of the bed.

He scratched his unkempt hair and groaned, using his free hand to turn the TV on. His big toe touched the power button to his 360, and suddenly it zoomed onto the screen. He clicked 3 buttons, and his playlist came on. Breach Birth suddenly popped up, and he headed towards the bathroom, passing by one of his posters. His shower was quick, and luckily it didn't seem to be full of iron tasting water this time. Must be his birthday.

He put on his pants, and buttoned up his shirt before he took a look outside. Two white males working. He recognized them from his daily scope outs. Not hard to figure out. One seemed to have a significant other, the lankier one. He had the distinct feeling the lankier one was a cultist of some sort. The sulphur in the dumpster he frequented was a fair clue, as was the 'new age' books of wiccan spells he'd seen through the window. Nothing he couldn't handle. He'd check later, but for now, business called.

He put his effects in his pockets. He checked to see his pistol was full, and placed it into easy reach on his person, grip poking into the small of his back from within his shirt. His switch blade was in his sock. "Time to start trouble." he said to himself, opening the door and sliding out. He needed food, and decided he'd go out and get some early breakfast before heading to the meeting that was sure to be a good lead. Even in text, he could tell Ellie had something real for them.

He walked into the office with an egg and cheese bagel, and some orange juice in a cup. Paid to be healthy, he told himself. "Pays to be nitpicky too," he whispered when he saw Kennedy.

[ihinka]

The first of Malone's obnoxious alarms started going off at 5am. She was decidedly not a morning person and had struggled with early rising to get to work her entire adult life. Her mom always made fun of her about this. As an OR nurse she was able to fall asleep and wake up on command. Her daughter sadly did not inherit that trait of hers. She loved lounging in bet and if not pressed by circumstances would usually emerge from the bedroom well past 11 o'clock in the morning.

More asleep than awake she reached for her phone and dismissed the howling of sirens coming from the device.

Isis stared at her human indignantly. Her feline face betraying an annoyance only a cat could muster. I mean, after all, if you were going to set alarms to wake up, why ignore them right off the bat? Was probably what she thought. She would wait a bit, before joining her efforts with that obnoxious little device that awoke her every morning in ungodly hours and did little to have the same effect on Malone.

A second alarm broke the silence in Malone's bedroom only but ten minutes after the first. Isis fixed the device with feline hatred and her tail began twitching lightly on the bed. A hand quickly quenched the sound of the Ride of the Valkyries emanating from the mobile phone. Fifteen minutes later a third alarm was extinguished in a similar manner. Isis was wide awake on the bed now, alert and clearly irritated as indicated by her snapping tail. She rose gracefully from her lying position and stalked Malone's hand where it lay near the phone. When the fourth alarm engaged, filling the room with the sounds of the Toccata and Fugue, Isis acted swiftly and without mercy. When her human's hand came to dismiss the alarm for the fourth time it was promptly swatted by a cat paw with just the right amount of claw thrown in there.

"Shait, Isis!" Malone grumbled and retracted her hand, the shrill of the Toccata persisting. "You don't have to be mean about it. I'm awake you know." The woman complained blaring half-closed eyes at the cat. The look Isis gave her was the epitome of doubt. Malone made a move for her phone but froze when Isis raised her paw extending her claws fully. "Sheesh... Dictator!" She muttered and sat in bed, rubbing her face with her hands to scrub the last vestiges of slumber from it. She looked at the feline. The alarm was still filling the room with the sound of the Toccata. "May I dismiss the alarm now, oh great one?" She stuck her tongue out at Isis. The cat simply turned her back at Malone and arranged herself on the bed. I'll allow it. The move stated and Malone retrieved her phone to switch off the alarm.

She got up from the bed and trudged to the bathroom. It was around twenty to six and she had time enough to take a quick shower, grab an even quicker breakfast and leave for the meeting at the Sunday Group. 8am, Jesus! How much crueler can you get? It's an ungodly hour to wake up at! Even more so to be already at work.

At 7am Malone shrugged in her leather jacket, grabbed her helmet, her keys and the overnight bag next to the front door. "Isis..." She called for the cat and the black feline with her striking heterochromian eyes sauntered over and sat neatly in front of Malone. "I'm going to work. You watch over the house. I've asked Miss Flaherty to check up on you if I won't be able to come back tonight." Isis looked at her indignantly. I don't need anyone to check up on me! Was what that look conveyed. "Yes, yes, I know." Malone sighed as if Isis had spoken so out loud. "But you do need someone to give you food." The ex-FBI agent pointed out. Fine, I'll allow it. Isis squared Malone with her bi-colored eyes. Malone crouched. "Watch out for unwanted quests." She warned, warmness infusing her Irish blue eyes. "Don't be a hero, Isis, you hear me." She almost pleaded, which had an unexpected effect on the standoffish cat. Her demeanor completely changed and she bumped her head against Malone's outstretched hand. I'll be careful, worrywart. Go do your job. Rid the world of what goes bump in the night! She instructed with a full body rub against Malone's open palm, flicking her tail cheekily as she walked away.

Malone stood up and shouldered her bag. "Right." She said nodding. "Buy." Exiting the apartment she locked the door and jogged down the stairs to the small inner garage where her Yamaha was stowed away. She put her helmet on, arranged her overnight bag on the back seat, securing it with a net, kicked off the stand and turned the engine on.

At about seven thirty she entered the building housing the offices of the Sunday Group, headphones in her years. The haunting lyrics of the theme song from Harry's Game escaping her mouth as she sang along. She entered the office not bothering to take out the headphones or stop singing, heading straight for her desk. If anyone was in the room already she wouldn't have noticed them. She was often not in this world when she listened to certain types of music.

[Panic]

“They’re doing it again.”

“Ignore it Frank,”

“But they’re playing that damn music again. I can feel it in my bones it’s so loud!”

“No you can’t. You don’t even have bones,” Fiona Grant chided her involuntary roommate before carefully going back to finish her lipstick.

“R.I.P., Rest in PEACE. How’s a guy supposed to get any peace with that loud racket going off every hour!” Frank was pacing now. Well, as much as you could pace as a ghost. It was more of an ethereal float back and forth across the room.

“Why don’t you just go rattle some chains or knock some shit over then,” Fiona offered sarcastically. Frank just grumbled incoherently at her and then at the loud kids downstairs. If he was this insufferable dead, Fiona could only imagine what he was like alive. Still, a girl could do worse for a roommate. He mostly just grumbled about kids these days or slept in his easy chair. Frank was more of a fixture, like a lamppost or a nice rug, than a roommate. Plus the social security checks that arrived every month, paying for the apartment, didn’t hurt either.

“...and they knew how to dress too!” Fiona just tuned into Frank’s morning rant at the last second.

“Hmm?”

“You’re clothes! You look like you’re going to a funeral again. Black this, black that. No, no women back in my day, they knew how to dress for a man,” Frank said, settling down into his large worn easy chair he refused to let Fiona throw out.

Fiona just rolled her eyes at his comments, grabbing her bag and keys. “Black is classic, it never dates. Plus it adds to the whole vibe don’t you think,” she said cheekily to a dismissive wave of Frank already falling asleep. “See you later you old crook,” she said already halfway out the door. As cranky as he was, Fiona liked having Frank around. He was the first real ghost she was able to talk to without them disappearing on her. And once he came, he never wanted to seem to leave. She still remembered the first time he popped up out of the wall ranting and raving at her for cashing his checks. Fiona didn’t know what was keeping him stuck in their apartment, but neither of them seemed concerned with figuring out how to get him to pass on.

---

---

From the little bell above the door, to the mint green faux leather covering the booth and stool seats, “Rosie’s Place” was the epitome of a dive. But Fiona loved it, and the free coffee didn’t hurt either. The young woman slipped into her favorite booth, the one right across from the waitress station. “Hey Charlie, how was last night? You almost off?”

Her best friend Charlie, a leggy blonde who in her little uniform looked more like a model than a waitress, came over with two cups a pot of coffee.

“I’m gonna quit. I’m gonna march right back there and quit,” her friend started before she even sat down. “I mean I have rent coming up but I can be late again...right? Fuck, I can’t quit. I want to, but fuck…”

“You’re gonna be stuck here forever. You might as well change your name to Rosie now, save us all time,” Fiona said taking a long sip out of her cup. Her phone buzzed next to her, but she made no attempt to answer it.

“God, could you imagine. I should probably go get some blue eyeshadow too...maybe start doubling my smoking,” Charlie said, putting her head in her hands, letting out a huge puff of hair, sending her bangs fluttering up.

“Speaking of a smoke...can I bum one?” Fiona asked, already reaching out for one.

“You said you were going to quit last week,” the blonde said, still passing one over though from the front of her apron.

“I’ll quit when you quit Rosie’s,” Fiona countered. They both had promised to stop smoking years ago, but neither lasted more than a month. Fiona picked up her phone, taking one more sip of her coffee before heading outside for a drag. She absent mindedly flipped through her various social media, before opening up the email from Ellie. Shit, she was going to be late. With a wave through the window at her friend, Fiona set back to her apartment quickly to grab her go-bag. If she could time it just right, she should be able to hit the red line and would only be five minutes late. Okay ten.

[FantasyChic]

Kennedy rolled out of bed fairly early that morning. She ran a hand through her hair to combat any knots that may have occurred during her slumber before making her way to the bathroom. The night before she received an e-mail calling for a meeting of the group she joined recently. The Sunday Group.

Were it a normal day before, she would be briefing herself on her case before getting ready to head to court to either talk to the defendant or talking to the judge. However, life wasn't so simple anymore. When you see an entire courtroom become eviscerated in a matter of seconds by what you could only describe as some demonic entity from some child's nightmare, then a normal life is not your calling.

So here she was getting ready to meet up with the group to continue to solve the mysteries that plagued the world.

She hopped out of the shower, dried herself off, and put on her make-up before stepping back into her bedroom to pick out her clothing for the day. She decided on a navy blue pantsuit with a light blue shirt. Opting to wear her glasses instead of contacts today, she put them on. She checked herself out in the mirror before she walked out the door.

---

Chicago was a complex city, but it offered multiple means of transportation. She enjoyed driving, but the city didn't agree with her often. She could take the bus, but she would have to stop and get off. The train was the easiest. She could take the orange line near her apartment and transfer to the red and get off fairly easily.

She took out her card and got through the train gates easily as others struggled in their morning commute. She got on the train and found a seat near the end. She paid no mind to the others on the train. She wasn't the type to make idle chit-chat with random strangers. They had their own business and she had hers.

On her way there, she thought about how she came to find the Sunday Group. It was about 6 months after countless therapy sessions that she got a random card in her mailbox. It asked her a simple question.

"Do you want to know the truth?"

Curious as all hell, she called immediately and was met with a kind voice who offered her a chance to find the truth she had been desperately searching for as well as helping other people. Having quit her former law firm, she wondered if they were looking to hire a lawyer.

As it turned out, no they weren't (though she was told that having a lawyer with them could get them out of a good number of sticky situations). But she couldn't deny that feeling of finding out the truth. What happened that night at the courthouse? Why did it happen? What could other events be attributed to the unknown?

She nearly missed her stop in her daydream and quickly got off and on to the red line train. After a few stops she made it to her destination.

Stopping at the nearby Starbucks to pick up a Grande Vanilla Chai Latte with Low Fat Milk and a dash of Mocha, she made her way into their office. It wasn't the most glamourous building, but then again if you did the kind of work they did, you didn't really want all eyes on you.

She made her way to their meeting spot. She sat down and sipped her drink, waiting for the others to arrive. As they trickled in, her eyes hit Manny and she fought an eye roll that begged to come out. Whatever, she wouldn't bother with him right now. She had a job to do.

[jasonwolf]

As usual even before sun up the Chekolv Deli was bustling. Sat together at the counter were Leon and Maria happily munching away at a breakfast so kindly prepared by Mrs. Chekolv. A toasted PBJ for Maria and a plate of eggs, sausage, toast, and hashbrowns for her father. Both were dressed for the day ahead, Maria in a blue and green plaid school uniform jumper, and her father in a polo, khaki's, and his brown work boots. After thoroughly cleaning the plate, using his toast like a squeegee, Leon carried the plate back into the kitchen.

“Thank you so much for watching Maria while I’m away for work. I’m sorry it’s always such short notice. Never know when they need when they decide to call in a wilderness specialist.” Leon smiled handing the dish to Mrs. Cheklov.

“Oh, you know it’s never a bother. Maria is always on her best behavior.” Mrs. Chekolv said taking the plate and putting it in the sink.

“Well if she ever isn’t you have my number. Anyway, I have to go finish packing, so Maria will be down here until she finishes breakfast.” Leon reminded her before excusing himself.

Heading up the back stairwell Leon re-entered his apartment. He had gotten a fair amount of the packing done yesterday night once he got the email, but sleep got to him before he finished. It tended to be a pain to pack for Leon. The balance of normal needs and fitting in the tiki’s he’d want was always an aggravating balancing act. The dufflebag already had a layer of tiki’s already packed between two layers of clothes.

“I wish she’d be a bit less mysterious with those emails. Some of us actually have to plan for these things.” Leon grumbled to himself as he looked over the other tiki’s he had considered taking.

“Where am I supposed to fit?” Ducky asked climbing onto the couch.

“Why would you be coming? I need you to stay here.” Leon quickly brushed off the comment zipping the bag shut.

“I’m not your guard dog. Besides not a single tiki in there is half as useful as me.” Ducky scoffed at his creator.

“And that’s why I need you here. E’s decided to not fill us in on what’s happening yet, so I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Your job is watching Maria.” Leon was very matter of fact.

“I am a powerful dreamtotem! If I unleash my wrath I can level cities!” Ducky tried to sound menacing.

“And we both know that’s impossible. Nothing can break your totem form. Now behave yourself while I’m gone and maybe I’ll get you a nice new coat of varnish.” Leon gave a final warning before grabbing his bag and heading for the door.

On the way out he grabbed his piece and its underarm holster. He strapped it on then put on his duster. Heading down around to the back alley he threw his duffle in his beat-up SUV. It had often been mocked by his younger co-workers as the dad-mobile. It wasn’t an entirely inaccurate name. When he was younger he drove a two-seat Jeep with all the off-road goodies, which he affectionately called the muck-raker after a great many times spent off in the woods. Now he was more concerned with crash-test safety and how easy it was to clean up goldfish.

With his mind still on such matters, he grabbed the booster seat from the back and brought it into the Deli. He dropped it off with Mrs. Chekolv before grabbing Maria for a final goodbye. Maria was still sat at the deli counter twisting side to side on the rotating chair.

“This is dad to the USS Maria, are you ready for take off?” Leon asked squatting down next to her.

“We are go!” Maria cheered

Leon hoisted his daughter into the air while making rocket noises. She gave a surprised yelp but quickly broke into laughter. Leon lowered her into a hug.

“Daddy, do you gotta go?” Maria asked a little sad.

“Ya know I gotta work. Bad things happen if I don't.” Leon said knowing well those things extended beyond not being able to pay bills, “I’ll try and call by bedtime ok. You be good for Mrs. Chekolv.”

“I love you, daddy.”

“I love you too.”

And thus the heartache began again. Leon set his daughter back down and yelled to let Mrs. Chekolv know he was leaving. Getting in his vehicle Leon refused to turn on the radio, for fear it'd play some sappy song that'd make him feel even worse. He drove the whole way in silence. He just stewed in his thoughts. He could only hope that this was giving them time in the long run.

Upon arrival, Leon parked up and headed in. As he passed through the door he made sure to nod down to door guarding totem, who stood slightly hidden away next to the umbrella stand. These weren't just magic pieces of wood. They were magic pieces of wood with attitude. Disrespect or break them and you were in for trouble. Having been the carver for most of them Leon took great care to keep on their good side and to keep others respecting them as well. Having gotten up earlier and arrived earlier Leon retired to a small office that was used as a combination trophy room and evidence locker. Anything that had to be hidden, but couldn't be destroyed or dealt with in other ways was collected here along with a few objects kept for posterity. Leon took it upon himself to keep accounts of the objects, The last thing they needed was for something to go missing and unnoticed. The inventory took about forty minutes leaving him just enough time to get to the meeting. Leon entered the meeting room, hung up his duster, and sat down folding his gloved hands.

"So E bother to tell anyone else why we're suddenly traveling? Because I'd really like to know what I'm dealing with when I'm trying to pack a small arsenal into a dufflebag." Leon said with a disgruntled professionalism.

[Naril]

The Magnificent Mile certainly lived up to its name. With high rents, high heels, and higher prices, the granite and limestone canyon of Chicago's high-fashion district couldn't be a more perfect habitat for her contact. Morgan made her way into a building clad in polished marble and gleaming brass, the door opened by a man who should have been on the cover of any number of magazines. His smile almost dazzled even her, and she felt one corner of her mouth pull up into a half-grin in return. Morgan slid through the open doorway, and felt the man's attention linger on her - but that was a sensation she was very used to. A flash of intensity, a spike of emotion, then a long, slow cooling, his attention moving to something else. A mortal, then, if an unusual one.

Still grinning, Morgan made her way to a bank of elevators. A penthouse, of course, how could it be otherwise. She walked into a car, jabbed the button, felt the cables tighten and pull her upward. She felt the awareness of those below her gently slide away, becoming part of the city's psychic background noise. People would remember her, they always did, but for the moment she didn't feel the invitation of more pointed attention.

That would change.

The doors opened onto another floor, and Morgan found herself dazzled again. This high above the street, bright daylight poured in from every direction, bouncing off a white, polished-stone floor and glinting from a ceiling marked with glittering silver filigree. Columns clad in baroque decoration, all equally luminous, supported the ceiling and led the eye further inside. A temple, but one designed by Versace. Morgan blinked and raised one hand for a moment, felt her eyes adjust. She lowered her arm, stepped away from the elevator car, heard the doors rumble shut behind her, and made her way further into the expanse of blinding brilliance.

Ahead, another woman sat at a polished mahogany desk, the rich red tones of the wood made all the more striking by contrast with the rest of the room. She was tall, almost eye-level with Morgan had she been standing. Raven tresses flowed over her shoulders, gathered in a loose tail with a length of bright white silk ribbon. She leaned over the desk, pen twirling with lazy grace in one hand, the other tracing down a tightly-packed document. Morgan felt the woman's presence in her mind, a familiar tug of something captivating and mesmeric. Long practice kept her breath from catching in her throat, and her fingertips itched to...well. None of that.

"Good morning, Agent," the woman said, not looking up. Her voice was warm, cultured, and dangerous.

Morgan smiled, moved to the desk, sat in one of the deep, rich chairs, "You are aware, of course, that is a title I no longer hold."

"Quite. But I love the way the word sounds." The other woman smirked, "And I must have something to call you. No names, after all."

Morgan made a gesture, acquiescence, "And what shall I call you this time?"

"Cassandra," the woman said, and now she looked up, her eyes meeting Morgan's, "Because I can see your future."

Morgan felt Cassandra's attention on her like an almost physical weight. They both knew the truth of one another, artifice aside, and Morgan found her fascinating. She was not safe, not here. She felt Cassandra's mind caressing her own with silken threads, finding the places where she could exert her power. Something so very much like her sisters, so unlike them at the same time. To begin with, it worked. Morgan felt her heart beat a little faster, noticed her breath coming in sharper pulls of warm air, that her skin felt flushed and warm.

She closed her eyes, took a slow breath in, and with infinite care unwrapped the bindings she held around her own power. Only the smallest fraction - this was a game, not a threat. Morgan opened her eyes and matched Cassandra's playful smile, and she saw the other woman's breath catch, the smallest touch of color on her flawless, pale face. Cassandra's eyes flashed with something that Morgan had to almost physically restrain herself from inviting further, and both women leaned back in their respective chairs. Between them, their power danced, spun, whirled in the ether, moving to the beat of their hearts.

"You are a delight, Agent," Cassandra murmured, her voice just loud enough to carry to Morgan's chair.

Morgan smirked. "I want to know about the suicides, Cassandra."

"Oh, come now. You know me better than that." Cassandra said, feigning hurt.

"I know you aren't responsible." Morgan leaned forward, "It's bad business. And that's not what...well. It's not what you need from them."

Cassandra's lips twitched, and the look she gave Morgan could have stopped traffic. "I suppose we're beyond negotiating prices?"

"Now and forever, Cassandra," Morgan said.

"Ah," Cassandra sighed, "You know, I remember when I first heard of you. If I'd known that in a few short decades we'd be having these kinds of conversations, well...I would have acted differently." A vulpine smile. "What I would not give to have you on my leash, Agent."

Morgan met Cassandra's eyes again, "It wouldn't work out."

"I suppose not." Cassandra purred, "But a girl can dream." She set her pen down, leaned back in her chair, put her legs up on the desk. A polished black heel that cost more than most people's rent dangled off one foot.

"There aren't many I would admit this to, you know," Cassandra said, "But the truth is that, at least for right now, I don't know. They aren't natural, at least the ones I've been suspicious of, but very little is left behind to suggest that afterward."

"How do you know?" Morgan said.

Cassandra chuckled, a sound with no mirth, "One of them happened in front of me. I couldn't find a way in, either. We can give people so much to live for - or, well. You know what I mean. It was...mm. Like you, but even more so. Alien. Impenetrable. And over almost the moment it knew I tried to stop it."

"You may be getting in over your head," Cassandra said, "You and that motley collection."

"They might surprise you," Morgan said.

Cassandra laughed, her voice like bells, "Do they even know what you are?"

"Not yet," Morgan said.

"Then that's the fortune I'll tell for you," Cassandra said with a grin, "A reckoning is coming, Agent." She swung her legs off the desk, a hypnotically beautiful movement. She stood stood, came around to the front of the desk. "A decade of careful lies and hiding. That's a hell of a dam to burst."

Morgan stood, not willing to let Cassandra tower over her, "And you'll be there to save me, I'm sure."

"Always," Cassandra said.

Morgan let her gaze roam over Cassandra's face, but she found only what she always saw: Pleasure, careful calculation, and something else that chilled her to her core. She held the pale woman's eyes for a long moment, almost daring herself to get lost in them before she blinked, pulling herself away. For now, the game was over. For now, another stalemate.

"I'll be seeing you," Morgan said, taking a step back.

"Of course you will, Miss B-" Cassandra began.

Morgan raised a finger, cutting her off. "Mm-mm, Cassandra. No names." She turned, her boots clicking on the polished stone. She heard another quiet sound, one of genuine, chagrined amusement, behind her.

Perhaps not quite a stalemate, then.

----------------------

To Morgan's mind, after a long and unusual life, punctuality was relative.

For example, Tregellan had asked for a meeting, one with a client, at eight in the gods-damned morning. Cassandra - and Morgan rolled her eyes again at that - had asked for the same. And, of course, neither could be disappointed. But there were ways and ways around that, to someone prepared to take them.

She jogged along the sidewalk, hair flying behind her, jacket flapping. Muscles tensed and released with every dodge and weave around slow-moving foot traffic, and she came within inches of being run down by a stray taxi running a yellow light. She hopped, ran by a stream of pedestrians by leaping from one concrete planter to another, the sleepy-eyed morning commuters almost utterly indifferent to her stunt. A burst of speed and she flashed through another crosswalk in the breathless moment between a light turning green and traffic actually flowing.

Another pair of blocks and the traffic thinned out, at least a little. Morgan spotted her car, pulled her keys out of an inside pocket. If it looked like something from another era nestled between modern, swoopy European numbers, that's because it was. Without missing a step, Morgan pulled the door open, lowered herself into the driver's seat and had the engine running before she finished closing the door.

Her phone chirruped, and she glanced at the square of light in the passenger seat. Fiona, wondering where she was. The irony was refreshing, considering. She rowed through another gear, barked a voice command at her phone - a modern convenience she had gotten thoroughly used to. A glance at the clock, and Morgan noted that the quarter-hour had just gone by - she was moving slower than she'd meant to. With a deep-throated growl from the engine, Morgan overtook a slower-moving shuttle bus, diving dangerously into oncoming traffic, and poured on speed. Going west in this part of the city wasn't nearly so fraught as north to south, but that didn't mean the way was smooth.

She left a trail of horn blasts behind, but Morgan made it past the worst traffic in a few minutes, accelerating toward the office. She hurtled down residential streets, the ones she knew had the smallest and fewest speed bumps, and blew through more than a few stop signs. There were, after all, advantages to knowing when nobody is looking. In a scant handful of minutes, she'd covered the distance to the office, skidding to a halt beside Leon's massive beast of a truck.

Ahead, she felt only the people she expected, and grinned to herself. The city's public transit had delivered unto her the delayed schedule she had expected. She locked her car, put the key back in her pocket, and mounted the stairs to the Group's rented office space. She paused at the threshold, hand hovering on the doorknob like someone not looking forward to an electric shock. The doorway buzzed with power, with the attention of something she had expected, but hadn't looked forward to. Leon had bloody gotten here before her and woken up the guarding totem. It was watching more closely than usual.

Not that it mattered. She had every right to be here, but the thing's attention made her skin crawl. With a sigh, Morgan grabbed the doorknob, wrenched it to one side, strode through the door with long, loping steps. The moment she passed the door, she felt like something cold and unpleasant washed over her, a phantasmal flop-sweat. The sensation passed, but it took a moment for her jaw to unclench while she walked further into the office.

She pulled open the meeting room's door, heard Leon's voice. Shaking off the last of the totem's interest, Morgan walked to the chair furthest from the guard totem, lowered herself into it.

"And which arsenal is that?" Morgan said, her voice a gentle tease, "The one that keeps milk from going sour, or the one that keeps caterpillars from the tomatoes? I shouldn't worry, Leon. Your arts and crafts projects are always more useful than one might think." She heard the outer door open with a bang, "Ah. And I think we may have more answers presently."

[jasonwolf]

@Naril

Leon managed to temper his reaction. With the absolute minimum of motion, he turned his head and set his gaze on Morgan. His big green eyes narrowing to a sharp glare.

"As much as you try to hide it, I'd really expect someone of your age to have a greater respect for the classics. They certainly acknowledge your abilities." Leon said ending with a smile that bared his canines like a wolf.

He gave a quiet chuckle to himself but did his best to maintain some air of professionalism, especially in front of the newer members. In one of few similarities to Morgan, or at least similarities he'd admit, Leon also knew the worth of putting on airs. Here especially having a sense of professionalism helped to maintain order despite the constant chaos thrown at them. If you treat monster hunting like a normal nine to five, then most others will believe it's a normal nine to five.

"Answers would be fantastic, but which questions to ask?" Leon made a final remark before taking a sip from his coffee mug.

[Penny]

The meeting room fell silent as Ellie stepped inside dressed in a button down white blouse and a dark professional business skirt. Ellie’s expression was its normal bland smile, but her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes were very bright. Behind her trailed a somewhat frumpy looking woman in her early thirties, her expression frozen in an odd mix of shock and relief.

The meeting room was one of only two enclosed rooms in the work area, the other being Ellie’s small office, the rest of the space was made up of individual workplaces separated by more or less permanent dividers in a fashion that would be familiar to views of police dramas of the 1980s. The room had a large polished table of shiny, striated wood, tiger maple in fact, and was surrounded by institutional grey upholstered chairs. At the head of the room was a large LCD monitor connected to a small laptop by an improbable nest of cables.

“Thank you all for coming in so early and…” her eyes lingered on Leon for a dark moment, “at such short notice.” Ellie settled the stunned looking woman into a seat at the end of the table with a gentle pressure of her hand.

“This is Madaline Holt, our client,” she went on and made a quick round of introductions to the various team members, beginning with Leon, the most senior and concluding with Kennedy. Ellie wasn’t yet sure about Miss Carter yet, to have come through what she had with her sanity intact the lawyer had to be tough but there were limits, especially when people were new. Ellie favored her with a slight smile, before heading to the front of the room and taking her own seat in front of the laptop. The monitor hummed to life with a series of quick keystrokes and an image of a woman’s face appeared. The woman in the picture was clearly dead, sterile official lettering naming her Cassandra E Holt followed by a string of alphanumeric symbols. The right side of her face was deformed with a bloody wound in place of the eye socket. Madaline turned her head away with a soft sob. Ellie pursed her lips but continued on.

“This is, or rather was, Cassandra Holt, Madaline's younger sister,” she explained in a professorial tone. Periodically she clicked at the laptop, cycling the photos through several more post mortem photographs. Mostly they established scale and provided close up on the gunshot wound and several minor contusions suffered during the fall.

“Six days ago police responded to reports of a gunshot at a motel in Portland Maine.” The images change to show photos of a clothed Cassandra laying in a pool of blood on the floor of a motel bathroom, chipped tiles glittering in the flash of the camera. A small handgun lying slightly off to the side, a police issue notation tag declared it a 22 caliber Sig Sauer P220.

“GSR was found on her hand and the police didn’t find any other signs of a struggle,” Ellie went on, her eyes going to Madeline who was sitting up stiffly in her seat now, clearly upset but also determined. The room was silent for a moment before the woman began to speak.

“Cassie would never kill herself,” Madeline said with quiet forcefulness, sweeping her gaze across the room as though daring anyone to contradict her. After a moment she continued.

“She went to Maine to be with her boyfriend but it didn’t work out,” her voice held the slightest undertone of sisterly disapproval.

“We talked everyday, she loved Portland, wanted to stay there even after the break up but she was having a lot of trouble finding work. A few months ago she told me she had me some people and she was very excited. After that though, I hardly heard from her. Then a few weeks ago she started calling me, talking strangely, hanging up at random. I was worried, I was going to go up and see her and then…” she trailed off and gestured at the crime scene photos, her bottom lip beginning to quiver.

“As it happens,” Ellie cut in smoothly, Ms Holt is correct. Several more clicks at the keyboard produced a strange photograph, a close up of swirling reds blues and purples.

“I performed a tertiary autopsy on Cassandra and I found she had the early stages of Tybalt-Koinegswald Syndrome. For those of you who are new to us, T syndrome is a neurodegenerative disease similar to CJD or Kuru. It is a side effect of the use of certain magical types geas.”

Ellie paused and removed her gold rimmed spectacles to scan the room.

“Which means either Cassandra was dabbling in some very questionable magic, or more likely, someone used magic to kill her.”

Privileged Knowledge

Morgan Blackwood

Ellie is clearly aroused when she enters the room.

Leon Smith

Ellie has a quiet buzz of magical power when she enters the room.

Sadhbh Malone

Although its physically possible, shooting yourself in the eye is an unusual method of suicide. It requires the gun be held at an unatural angled and most people go for the temple or the bottom of the jaw.

[/hider]

[POOHEAD189]

Manny gave Madaline a polite and tactful nod when she entered the room, despite his casually unkempt appearance. He'd seen a lot of horror in his life. He might have gotten used to it (perhaps a bit too much), but he always needed to remind himself that the victims and their families had not. Still, business was business and it was time to get down to it. He sipped his morning coffee and leaned in near the fore of the group, over Ellie's shoulder, and eyeing the various images of the victim, Cassie.

He backed up nonchalantly when Ellie went to address the team, nearly bumping into Kennedy. He sidestepped, and leaned against the side wall. With his pointer and middle finger, he slipped out the small stirring straw he chewed in his mouth.

"Boyfriend seems like the most obvious suspect, but in this line of work it's never really that simple." He said, thinking aloud. "Doesn't look like any run-of-the-mill demon or apparition possession I've ever seen either, so as you said, some non-rudimentary spell seems the most likely, which means we probably have a run-of-the-mill human to deal with."

He was almost disappointed. Humans weren't his specialty, but that was mainly because he'd outgrown them. They were often too predictable and easy. Even hedge-witches and occult magic casters. Still, wouldn't hurt to do some research.

"Give me a small bit, and I can probably find some enchantments that would cause this. I think the question is what kind of magic did this, rather than who casted it. Usually if we find out the former, it's easier to deduce the latter. We'd just need to check library records or certain behaviors to see who likely candidates would be."

He was more of a researcher, and a doer, than a brainstorming kind of guy. But long years in the field fighting God condemns what had his mouth running. He also knew Ellie and the others appreciated everyone pitching in, even if it wasn't their expertise. Luckily, this was.

[ihinka]

Malone paused the media player on her phone and removed her headphones when Ellie entered the office followed by a harrowed woman. The client. Malone thought. Ellie looked somewhat flush, but that wasn't all that strange for someone with her complexion.

They all filed one by one in the meeting room and sat around the table. Short introductions followed and Ellie began her presentation. The client, Madaline Holt, who looked to be in her thirties, had apparently contacted Ellie to do a follow-up autopsy on her sister after COD was determined to be suicide by gunshot. The woman seemed adamant her sister wouldn't kill herself.

Malone knew suicide was hard to comprehend for the relatives. Even when faced with indisputable evidence to the fact. But since they were all here it meant Madaline was right about her sister and the poor girl probably didn't take her own life or if she'd done so, she wasn't in her right mind or in control of her actions.

Malone stared at the misshapen face of the young woman with grimness. She could feel the rage begin to boil within her. It was a familiar occurrence after her last case with the Bureau, but she'd learned to temper that in the year or so that followed and especially after she'd joined the Group and started feeling better equipped to hunt the monsters. She allowed the rage to build in intensity, but wouldn't let it spill out of control. Instead she transformed it in a form of edgy determination that etched across her features whenever she was working.

Young Cassandra was robbed of her life and she would offer whatever she knew to make the responsible parties pay.

"The entry wound is unusual." She crossed gazes with Ellies. Her eyes seem brighter than usual. Malone thought. "With suicides by gunshot, people usually go for the temple, the chin or the mouth. It would be difficult, but not impossible, to shoot yourself in the eye. Plus she would have to be at least left-handed to do it in the right eye." The ex-FBI profiler mused. She spoke quietly, politely in deference to the rage boiling within her.

"Miss Holt, you said your sister was doing fine after her breakup with her boyfriend and was planning a life for herself in Portland. That alone with the unusual shooting method should have raised flags for the investigators. You also said your sister didn't demonstrate any suicidal tendencies and her behavior seemed to change only after she met with this new group of people."

Malone directed her attention to Ellie once again. "We should try to find out everything about those people. Although Manny is right, we should look into the boyfriend as well. Even though he was out of the picture well before that we'll need to rule him out." Malone paused looking at their client. This couldn't be easy for her and the woman was doing a valiant job of listening to this discussion about her recently departed sister. Malone's jaw clenched and unclenched, her eyes flashing in anger for a nanosecond. She made a conscious effort to temper it and continued.

"It is too early to do a proper determination of Cassandra's state of mind prior to her death, but I would be inclined to think she did not shoot herself even under duress or under someone or something else's influence. There is the positive GSR test though. Someone could have held her hand and the gun and pulled the trigger. If that was the case the GSR pattern on her hand should be unusual."

Malone fell silent. She still wasn't well versed in all things paranormal, but Ellie had proven foul play with the autopsy and they had venues to explore. As of right now, they still had precious little to go on and they would have to hunt for more clues.

[FantasyChic]

As Ellie walked into the room, Kennedy set her laptop on the table in front of her to prepare taking notes. It was a habit of hers from her lawyer days. She considered herself an excellent note taker. Followed closely behind Ellie was their client. The poor woman looked disheveled. As introductions went on, Kennedy noticed she went in order of seniority. Though she was sure it was unintentional, part of her wondered if that was a subtle reminder that she was the new one of the group and that she had very little sway in this instance. She brushed it off as she noticed Ellie lingered a look at her with a comfortable smile. Perhaps as if to say "I look forward to what you can do." Manny nearly bumped into her and said nothing, continuing to drink his coffee. She rolled her eyes and listened to Ellie as she spoke.

She was determined. She wanted answers and this place was her best bet at finding them. If she could research and learn while also helping others, that was the cherry on top of the supernatural sundae.

Kennedy took notes as Ellis spoke and showed pictures of the crime scene. Having been a criminal lawyer for some odd years she saw various crime scenes before. Some more grisly than poor Cassandra's. She made notes as Ellie spoke, but also various ones she saw in the picture.

Had she listened to this years later, with talk of magic and other supernatural oddities, she probably would have laughed you out or even offered to strike an insanity plea. Now here she was, taking it all in and even believing it. After all, she saw first hand that we are not always the ones in control. It made her shudder a bit thinking about it. Perhaps this case would be a good stepping stone to figuring out what happened in the courtroom.

The facts were laid out for them. Manny made a good point about the boyfriend and Malone about the group. She shared these ideas as well. It was obvious to anyone that you look at close ties in a murder case. "Even if the boyfriend has a solid alibi, if what you are saing actually happened, then he could have been the one to get her to kill herself. I also mimic Malone's ideas about the group as well as her logic behind the suicide. Perhaps the reason she was shot through the eye as a sort of message. There've been countless cases of this. Maybe whoever did it was saying she saw too much and had to be put down. Its an avenue to explore, at least."

She finished up the final notes before she waited for the others to voice their opinion. She didn't want to step on any toes, but she was aiming to prove herself as quickly as possible. This was, most likely, her last chance at answers.

[jasonwolf]

When E entered Leon quickly downed the entire contents of the mug before setting it aside. As soon as the next woman entered the room Leon’s eyes locked onto her. If they were in the normal world it would be rude, here it was common practice. Picking up on the tiniest trace of magic could change everything in a case. He didn’t even notice when E called him out. Leon gave up the search when E sat the client down.

Leon was left quiet for most of the presentation. He stared unflinchingly at the grisly photos. A combination of desensitization and knowledge of far worse things made it easy. The post mortem photography wasn’t providing much in terms of things to scan. A dead body was a dead body, at least most of the time, and E had already done an autopsy so there wasn’t anything to find in or on the person. The bathroom photo while providing some context also was just that a small motel bathroom, no space for something to hide really.

He let the newer members chime in and make their cases first. They may not have a full grasp of the possibilities, but sometimes Leon could go a bit too far on what must have happened. Simpler ideas could be just as correct as the old god cults.

He was especially intrigued by Malone’s points. He didn’t have half the schooling she did, but he did remember a few things from college psych courses. Namely, that female suicides tended towards slower methods like wrist slitting and overdoses and that they’d usually do it somewhere easy to clean up like the bathtub or otherwise out of the way. If it was a suicide the person usually felt bad about themselves and didn’t want to cause any more problems so they’d try and make it easy for everyone else. They weren’t rules, but they were things to consider. He wasn’t in as much agreement about the gun thing though. He had plenty of experience with a pistol and aiming your right hand into your right eye wouldn’t be that difficult. Leon even made a finger gun into his right eye to make sure. Shooting yourself in the eye could be another matter, but he had no way to dispute that.

“If you all want to look into the people surrounding the case I’d be glad to take on scene investigation. Police aren’t all that great on picking up what’s really vital. If I can get to the motel I can probably trace her steps backward. At the very least I should be able to pick up on anything from ‘the beyond’.” Leon noted looking to Ellie to see if she could get him access.

On a less mystic note, Leon thought of another important question.

“Did she already own the handgun? If not then we could probably try to find out what state she was in when she got it. Three possibilities come to mind. She knew something was wrong and wanted it for self-defense, she was manipulated into getting it, or it was given to her by the murderer. With any of those ways, I think it's key that we fill in those days without contact.”

Leon was quite certain of his abilities to find the missing information, but that wouldn’t be happening here. He excused himself assuring the others that he was simply going to prepare some equipment based on the new information.

[Panic]

Fiona let out a soft snort as Kennedy pulled out her laptop, typing away like some kind of secretary. She didn’t know where Ellie had found this chick, but damn, she was a try hard. Fiona wasn’t one for notes or the traditional detective work, she trusted her ability to read people. The young woman took a long sip out of the bitter coffee she had poured from the office’s small kitchen. Her nose scrunched up a bit at the burnt taste, wishing she had brought some from Rosie’s instead.

Her attention was quickly drawn to the front of the room as the briefing began. Ellie’s voice continued in the background as Fiona closely examined the client, watching closely as her face gave everything away. She was obviously fully convinced that Cassie was a victim of foul play, and visibly tired of being told otherwise. But just because she was convinced didn’t necessarily mean it was true. If Ellie took the case though, and had actually found signs of T syndrome during the autopsy, then Fiona was inclined to also believe something fishy was going on.

One by one many of the others in the room spoke up, talking about possible motives and leads. Fiona’s fingers tapped lightly against the table, a bad habit she had picked up when she was deep in thought. She had all but written off the boyfriend as a suspect. No, it was the group of odd friends that had intrigued her. Sounded like a possible cult or coven that Cassie had gotten tied up in the middle of. But groups like that were hard to get talking. They would be covering for one another, and distrustful of any outsiders. Fiona was certain if they all went up asking questions, they’d spook the group and lose any chance of solving the case. Fiona was considering the possibility of infiltrating the group and seeing if she could play their next naive victim to see what they were really up to. She was getting ahead of herself though.

“Talking strangely? How so?” Fiona inquired.

“It’s hard to explain. But it was at all hours, random times she shouldn’t have been calling and absolute nonsense. Oh! I think I have a couple of messages she had left for me...hold on let me see,” Madeline said, starting to dig through her bag. She pulled out her phone, and after a moment of messing with it, started playing a message out loud for the group.

“Maddy! Mad mad mad mad Maddy! A sound you heard wants to set things right as gasoline sees the sun. You have to hurry though, the clock ticks for only Gods. Just remeber for me my dear Maddy, the sky is not yet ready to die! ”
The young woman who spoke on the phone sounded manic and talked quickly but oddly cheerful.

Madeline pressed a few more buttons, starting up the second message.

“Clock….block….aftershock…..long-gone swan song is a swan song long-gone. ”
This message was much shorter and the girl on the phone seemed deflated. Her voice was low and slow, as if trying hard to recall something.

The third message she played was just the sound of heavy breathing, a quick nervous laugh, and then an abrupt hang up after some shuffling around.

[Naril]

That hadn’t been what Morgan expected.

Something about Tragellan had felt…strange, in her approach; so much so that she almost hadn’t recognized it. Finely-tuned eavesdropper’s ears managed to completely miss anything the Client or, for that matter, anyone else might have said - Morgan’s mind was elsewhere. Scents, emotions, a heavy psychic presence; for a long, slow moment Tragellan was to Morgan what a fine, sweet Cuban cigar might be to a terminal nicotine addict. She hid her surprised with careful practice, shifting in her seat and reigning in those parts of her that wanted, needed to leap over the table toward Tragellan and for one blinding second….

Instead she forced herself to fill that information away, pushing the scent, the feeling of Tragellan away from her mind. Something to ask about when the opportunity arose, doubtless, but not now. Morgan made a considerable effort of will to wrench her attention back to the matter at hand, coming back to herself while Tragellan busied herself with the meeting room’s displays.

Despite her efforts - or, rather, because of them - the client barely registered on Morgan’s awareness, leaving her almost blank in a way that she never quite got used to. She was upset, of course. Adamant in her belief in her sister’s actions, which interested Morgan. Was she being too insistent? Could her version of the truth be taken as holy writ? Had Madeline placed her sister on some kind of pedestal, she wondered. Something else to watch for, she supposed.

A moment later, and the screen at the far end of the room flickered to life. The photos managed to be both brutal and clinical, and the accompanying narration and interjection made the scene all the more so. Morgan took the information in, let it float in her mind, allowed the pieces of fact and conjecture find their own places to connect. The others spoke, and she let her gaze drift around the room. Sensible suggestions, all of them, and her own thoughts contracted around some of the same questions. In particular, this new group of friends, and the change in Cassandra’s behavior. Her attention sharpened when new sounds flickered into the room, tinny and distant - voicemails.

Morgan cleared her throat, “There are - or there were, I suppose - cults in that part of Maine. Something to do with the climate, perhaps. Long nights, cold winters, short summers. People start to look for answers in dark places.” She leaned forward.

“I remember one, the Lachallan Society, from…well. Some time ago.” She shifted in her seat, “They were…different. Organized, quiet. And their leader was a man with real power, with the kind of personality to start nations and lead wars. A terrible combination.” Morgan watched Madeline, her gaze slightly to one side of meeting he eyes.

“At the time, he called himself William Crease, though I suspect that wasn’t his real name.” Morgan’s eyes focused inward, pulling up an old memory, “It seemed like no one could quite find where he came from, to tell the truth. He had been touched by something, a being not of this world. Something that gave him the power to walk in dreams and steal thoughts and whispered in his mind. Crease almost had an entire town under his sway before he was stopped.” She looked around to the other members of the Group.

“Or, I suppose I should say, before he was discovered. Crease got sloppy, started moving too quickly.” She drummed her fingers on the table, “People started disappearing, and some of them showed up again, talking about the sky and the breaking of time, or just laughing to themselves. Some of those people disappeared again, others went to sanitariums. He brought attention to himself.”

“The confrontation was…ugly. On many levels. Churches burned, bodies left in the streets. All quietly swept away before anyone could get too excited about it. And because this campfire story needs an appropriate ending, I should say that Crease was never found.” Morgan looked over at Madeline and Tragellan, “It would be far too neat to assume we’re dealing with the same person. But Crease wasn’t alone. Like I said, people look for answers in dark places in that part of the country.”

“On a more mundane note, there are details about the weapon that intrigue me,” Morgan said. “That particular configuration is unusual to the point that it may be a clue in and of itself. When we get to Portland, I should like to examine it, if that’s at all possible.” She glanced at Tragellan, “You did say to pack a bag, yes? Are travel arrangements made, or shall we inform you when we arrive?”

I can do privileged information, too!

Anyone familiar with the Lachallan Society case, information about which is available from the FBI via FOIA request, will know that the case spanned 1932-1941, with the largest amount of activity from 1939-1941. There are few photographs available officially; none show Morgan, though some have clearly been redacted for unclear reasons. Case notes do not deviate strongly from Morgan’s summary.

If Malone has seen the unexpurgated file, she will know that many case notes are attributed to an “Agent M.B.” A woman who could be Morgan appears in one photograph, in the center of a town square and surrounded by shredded, torn bodies. Behind her are two crumpled men wearing dark suits; they are labeled “Agent C.M.” and “Agent L.S.” on the reverse. Opposite the woman is a man with a narrow spear in his hands and with some kind of sigil glowing on his exposed forearms. The spear has pierced completely through the woman; her jacket is resting on the tip protruding from her back. The photo has captured her in mid-air, as the spear-wielder apparently lifted her off the ground. This photo does not appear at all in FOIA requests.

[Penny]

Ellie nodded metonymically as the team members gave their feedback on the brief presentation. For a moment her eyes dilated and her skin flushed slightly before she forced herself back to the business at hand. Sipping from her coffee cup allowed her a moment to focus her mind and force the hot emotions out of her mind.

It was an interesting property of ideas, that they all seemed obvious in retrospect. When your professions included Doctor and Magician, you tended to think along the lines of patterns and formula, the team was far better at generating lines of inquiry than she was.

As the discussion progressed Madeline grew increasingly hunched and defensive as though each new theory crashed on her like a physical blow. Ellie had seen it before, the woman was strong willed, but the existence of the supernatural world could strain the toughest of mind. Again, Ellie considered leaving the woman in Chicago, given the nature of the case it wasn’t likely she would be of more help. On the other hand, it wouldn't be easy to convince her to remain behind.

Ellie began to drift of into a semi meditative reverie as Morgan spoke. It was always easy to lose focus when the woman was talking. Morgan was talking, and talking to her. Ellie snapped back to full alertness and took another sip of coffee to give her mind a moment to replay the last few seconds of conversation. Travel arrangements.

“We have tickets leaving for Portland, thats Portland Maine obviously, at noon. I’ve got a business class.” Truthfully it was an irritating expense but past experience suggested packing the team into economy could have unpredictable results. It was a good thing Delta had agreed to drop the suit.

“I shouldn’t need to remind you that this is a commercial flight, please make sure any weapons are legal so you can check them,” her gaze lingered frostily on Manny for a moment, indicting him for past sins. With slow deliberation she cycled each of the gritty crime scene photos again, giving everyone a last chance to see the images. The files were already uploaded to the office cloud and available but she found showing them in a group setting was still a useful tool.

Madeline made a strained choking sound and Ellie looked up at her with a touch of asperity. The woman was practically green, her hair hanging forward to partially obscure her face.

“Down the hall and to the right,” Ellie directed and the woman dashed from the small conference room, knocking over several stacks of papers as she did so. A moment later loud retching could be heard from the bathroom. The mental overload affected everyone differently. Dealing with a sibling's death was strain enough for anyone. Still Madeline's absence was not without its advantages. Ellie set her coffee cup down with a soft clack.

“Let us assume the the police are as blind and incompetent as the usually are,” Ellie began, mulling the proposition over as she spoke.

“Miss Carter, I’d like you to get whatever evidence the police have gathered, the late Miss Holts personal possessions might be useful to us as well. There shouldn’t be any difficulty given that the death has been ruled a suicide." That was theoretically true and another reason to bring Madeline along as the next of kin, but it wasn't her experience that police were particularly cooperative when it came to private investigators second guessing their work.

“Miss Malone, get all the voicemails you can from Madeline when she is done… adjusting and see what you can put together about her mindset. You and Miss Blackwood can work the associates and this… cult angle.” As she spoke Ellie began ticking off points on the fingers of her right hand.

“Leon will talk to his contacts and visit the site. It was nearly a week ago so they might be renting it out by now given the coroner's report.”

“We need to assume that the boyfriend could be involved, it wouldn’t be the first time a desperate lover has tried to use magic to maintain waning affection,” Ellie smiled, she had been tempted herself on more than one occasion. Mind magic was a dangerous realm even for professionals and was insanely dangerous for both dabblers and their victims.

“Manny you can cover that angle and look into the various sorts of charms that might have been used. You will also need to find us transportation once we land in Portland.” She pressed her laptop closed with a click and began to disconnect it from the AV equipment, snaking cables as she went.

“Everyone gather what you need for the trip, if anyone has anything super illegal that they feel they MUST bring, come and talk to me about it.” She had no doubt plans would change as more information and new ideas came to light, but the important thing now was to get the team moving.

“Miss Blackwood, Miss Grant, if I can have a moment?” she called as the meeting began to break up into the usual organized chaos of preparing for an investigation and for the hell that would be O’Hare at noon time.

“Fiona,” she greeted as the young woman approached her. Ellie found she liked the young medium, although she couldn’t have articulated exactly why. The hot emotions began to rise again and she forced them down ruthlessly. She needed to talk to Morgan about the Cults she had described but that could wait for a moment. Even though Madeline still hadn’t returned from the rest room she lowered her voice to a private murmur.

“Do you think you might be able to speak with Cassandra… or her shade… or whatever the term is? It certainly would make things simpler.”

[ihinka]

After Malone had said her peace she'd sat back in her chair, fitting her back snuggly into its cushioned back. Her face showed a barely registerable twinge of pain that she quickly erased, adjusting on the seat until she felt the snugly fitted lower back holster, housing her backup sidearm - her Walther P22. Her main sidearm - her P99, would go in its shoulder holster when they left for Maine.

Malone allowed the voices of her colleagues to wash over her, absorbing what they were saying in a sort of trance-like attention. It was a technique she was perfecting for years now. Allowing herself to detach her attention from a single point of focus so that she could view the picture in its entirety. All opinions took their rightful place in the bigger design. During the course of their investigation their places would shift and some would even be discarded with the accumulation of new information. If Malone needed it, she could zoom in on something to give it the focused attention it required. And after that was done with she would pan out again, readjusting the design to fit any new information she had discerned.

During her time in the Bureau she assumed most, if not all, of the investigators had similar systems to allow them to process the staggering, at times, amounts of information and evidence. And mostly they did, but she'd learned none came close to the elaborate design and functionality hers had. If asked to explain it, she probably wouldn't have been able to articulate adequately its full functionalities. Prior to her last case she always thought she just had a mind more attuned to processing this sort of peculiar information any investigator encountered during his or her work. But after staring literal evil in the eyes and discovering the existence of the supernatural, she wasn't so sure of that anymore. Now she wondered if what she could do could fall in the purview of the supernatural. Either way it was a useful tool and she intended to nurture it even more and use it to the best of her abilities if it allowed her to bag and tag the real baddies.

Her all-encompassing mind was abruptly pulled into focus when Morgan spoke. Malone couldn't help herself. The woman intrigued her like few had ever managed. If her mom was still alive she would probably make a silly remark about her being smitten by Morgan. The thought was painful and amusing at the same time. Painful, because the wound caused by her mum's death was still so very raw inside her sole, Malone feared it would never heal. And amusing, because her mum would be right on the money of course. If only Malone wasn't so battered and beaten emotionally that she could even entertain the possibility of being smitten by the mysterious Miss Blackwood.

The ex-FBI agent didn't even try to reenter the Zone, as she liked to call her personal little profiling brain app. She knew she couldn’t force her way in again. And even if she could, the connection would suck and no work would be done. Plus, Morgan's voice called for too much attention from her, so she succumbed. She listened carefully the information the other woman was relaying on the cult. Her attention firmly on her body language, micro-expressions, anything and everything that would give her an edge on unravelling the mystery that was Morgan Blackwood. But the woman was more guarded than anyone and anything Malone'd ever encountered. Which, of course, only made her more determined.

She remembered vaguely reading some summation about the cult known as the Lachallan Society, but nothing specific. She would have to remedy that, of course. Since she no longer had access to FBI case files she would have to request the information via the FOIA, and that would take entirely too long. She wondered if their newest addition, Kennedy Carter, the ex-lawyer, could help cut some of the red tape and shorten the standard at least twenty working days waiting period. She'd have to ask. Or you could just speak more in depth about it with Morgan. A tiny voice sounded in her head. Malone ignored it, but felt somewhat elated at hearing it at all. Her libido hadn't announced itself for far too long with falsely reasonable suggestions in an attempt to get her close to someone she found intriguing, but was too stubborn to admit to herself. No, she would ask Kennedy. Plus she wanted the official record.

When Morgan's voice released her from its spell, she almost flew back into the Zone, encompassing once again Ellie's final words to the team as well as how they were received by everyone present. She nodded when she received her instructions and fought tooth and nail to keep a satisfied grin from appearing on her mouth from being appointed to work closely with Morgan. She quickly excused herself when Ellie was done talking and walked slowly to the bathroom. Even with Ellie's directive to acquire the voicemails, she would have followed Madeline as she was actually more concerned with offering some moral support for the obviously suffering woman. Losing a relative was always hard on the surviving, even more so when under darker circumstances.

She knocked on the door. "Miss Holt?" The retching had stopped and now she could hear muffled sobbing from the inside as well as running water. "May I come in? It's Sadhbh Malone." She paused. "I'd like to... help. If I can." She heard a click, signaling the door had been unlocked and she took it as permission to enter. She did so quickly, closing the bathroom door behind her. She locked it again.

Madeline Holt was more than obviously distraught. Her face was pale, her eyes red and puffy and dull with pain and grief. She looked at Malone, but without really seeing her. And then her eyes cleared, her hand shot to her mouth as a fresh wave of sobs surged forward and she found herself cushioned by Malone's arms. "I can't believe she's really gone." She mumbled against Malone's black t-shirt.

After a couple more minutes of crying and sobbing Madeline calmed herself enough to step back from Malone's arms. She looked at her gratefully. "Thank you." She whispered. "I... I can't seem to stop crying. I would think of her and I’d..." Her lower lip trembled threateningly and she bit it to stave off another bout of sobbing and sniffling.

Malone stepped forward and took her hand. "It will be like that for quite some time, I'm afraid." She stated. Her intention was not to discourage the woman. On the contrary. Lying to her in a moment like this would be far more detrimental to her mental state. Death, as painful as it was, especially under such circumstances, was a natural part of life. And people had learned to live with it since they'd existed. One way of another. And Madeline needed to be reminded of the fact that dealing with it was never a singular moment in time. It was a never ending process until the surviving relative themselves had to go through that particular experience firsthand.

Madeline looked up at her, appreciative. She was obviously a strong woman, despite her current vulnerability, and Malone's honesty had brought some lucidity to her demeanor. "Thank you. I appreciate your candor. I know I'll have to deal with her being gone for a long time. But right now we need to figure out what happened to her. And you need me to help you, right?" She looked expectantly at Malone.

The ex-FBI profiler nodded. "Yes. If you could tell me more about what your sister was like. As a person?" Malone allowed an encouraging smile to touch her lips. Madeline's eyes unfocused as she was obviously considering the question.

"She was such a vibrant person." She started slowly. "So full of life and the desire to live it, you know?" The question was obviously rhetorical so Malone did not interrupt to answer. "She wanted to experience everything to the fullest. That's why when they told me she'd... she'd..." Madeline could not force herself to say the words. "That's why I couldn't believe them." She finished in a strangled tone. "But then she moved to Maine with her boyfriend..." Madeline's tone of voice betrayed her opinion of her late sister's choice of companionship. "And then the breakup... But even after that she was fine. She was determined to make it work and not let it get her down." She fell silent.

Malone took the opportunity to interject. "Since we are all here it means we are at least willing to investigate the possibility that she did not take her own life." Madeline looked at her with hope in her eyes. "But you must understand, however..." Malone forged on before she lured the other woman into a false sense of hopefulness. "We may uncover things about your sister you may wish had remained hidden." Madeline's head hung to her chest at those words. "We all like to think we know our relatives well, but at times we keep secrets. Even from those closest to us." She placed her hand on Madeline's shoulder. "Just keep that in mind, okay." Madeline nodded a fresh mist of tears over her eyes. "If you need someone to talk to, call me." She handed the woman her card.

"Thank you... again." Madeline pocketed the card. "I... I'm sorry about your shirt." She sniffled and tried for a watery smile.

Malone smiled in response. "No biggie, plenty more where that one came from." She allowed a chuckle to escape her mouth. And then her blue eyes hardened a bit. "I'm sorry, but I'll need those voice mails your sister sent you." She planned on focusing on those inflight to Maine.

"Of course." Madeline whispered, her lower lip quivering.

After they transferred the files Malone left the other woman to clean up and exited the bathroom first. She looked about the meeting room and locating Kennedy approached her. "Hey, can I have a minute? I was wondering if you could help me with something. It's about that cult Morgan mentioned. I remember an FBI case file about it. But since I no longer have my Bureau access we'd have to go through the FOIA to obtain the records. We could talk to Morgan for details of course, but I think it would be best to have the hard copy of the information as well. But we'll need it now rather than later. I was wondering if you could cut some of the red tape. Help expedite the procedure a bit?"

[POOHEAD189]

Manny gave Ellie a wink. "Way ahead of you," he said, giving the others a casual salute as he back stepped out of the meeting room. His long legs moving smoothly over the sleek floor, he practically slid into his office, landing gracefully in his rolling chair. His momentum brought him to his desk, outfitted with a disheveled pile of books, a shitty laptop, a sheathed USMC combat knife, and a mini-fan he often enjoyed in the summer time.

He turned his computer on, but not to do research. He turned on an audio file he had downloaded months ago, a post grunge song by TDG and their new singer called 'The Real You.' Songs that brought a harsh rhythm he enjoyed. It was how the real world actually was. Rough and terrible, but with a certain melodic feeling and pattern. Of course Manny wouldn't describe it in such a way himself. Rather he'd have used far more casual language. 'Hard and rough, but you can dig it."

He let out a breath, and scratched his neck, before he began to pick apart his book stack with a methodical but practiced examination. "Ok," he said under his breath. "What kind of magic would influence some chick like that?" Placing both feet on the table and reclining, he reviewed the tomes he had.

He slipped past the basic tomes of Paracelsus, outlining the basic functions of mystical theory. It helped any journeyman magician to conjure up a small spell, but it was taxing to the very spirit. Either way, it wouldn't tell him what he needed to know. There was no enchanting in the book, at any rate.

The Edda Mystic would do no good. Norse magic didn't apply here, neither did the Anthology of Divinations. He tossed the rejected books back onto the desk, each tome landing roughly in a stack as they had been when he'd first entered the room. No wonder they're such a mess, he could hear Kennedy say in his mind. He snorted, and continued the search.

De Occulta Philosophia was next, and Manny flipped it open. Agrippa Von Nettesheim was an eccentric madman, but undoubtedly brilliant. If it wasn't for his pacts with the underworld and his intense curiosity, he might have actually found immortality. The book Manny thumbed through held secrets that still needed to be researched and formed into concrete spells. As effective of a mystic as Agrippa was, his writings were vague and lacking real forethought in diction. More like random scribbles that provided half insights and fantastical sigils of mystic power that had long since been snuffed out.

He sighed, and tossed it onto the growing pile.

The detective sipped the last bit of his coffee as he eyed the next book, and something in his head clicked. Grimoire of the Order of the Golden Dawn, the system of magic perfected from Levi's Laws of of Magic. Every Greek, Egyptian, and Norse God, along with every spirit name in The Key of Solomon, along with many other medieval Grimoires piled into the collection to create the system of the more modern view of the occult.

He turned to the rituals of enchanting. He realized it could have easily been a practiced sorcerer who had influenced Cassandra by a willed spell, but much more likely they had killed her via a ritual. Particularly if it was her supposedly average boyfriend.

He placed his finger on the page as he read aloud. "An octagon of orange yellow chalk, lamps burning at each corner, boiling snake fat...Incense of mercury smoldering in the censure...accept of us these magical sacrifices, and bestow upon our will those of another and place our spirit upon their head until thy deed is done..."

He bit his tongue as he pondered.

"Well shit, could be it."

[jasonwolf]

Leon rubbed his chin as he looked down on the grim face of a Polynesian mask, its teeth bared in rage, a large flared nose, and a long folded mask over its own eyes then curved to fall behind the wearer's shoulders. If the threat was capable of mind control or at the very least mental alternation, everyone would be at high risk. Leon gritted his teeth as he lifted the mask to put it on. It seemed to pull itself onto his face. At first, there was just a whisper in his ear as the wood pressed against him, but it grew louder. It was a foreign dead language, but the meaning was known to Leon.

“Back again? And so soon. You may as well keep my mask on.”

“Ku, we both know that’s not happening. We have our bargain. I just need a ward.”

“And what are we trading for that?”

“Blood, and by my guess lots of it.”

“You have my attention.”

“There’s a murderer using mind-altering magics, and as usual I’m sure there’s more to it. You guard my mind. I’ll trade them for the service. If nothing happens you’ll never have to of fulfilled your side so neither will I.”

Leon could feel the mask’s grimace turn into a vile grin.

“I accept. The odds of bloodshed around you always are high. You are free to go now.”

The mask returned to normal and removed its grip on Leon. Pulling it off Leon set it on his desk. The mask began to morph again turning into a pair of aviator’s. Leon put them back on and could again hear Ku.

“Your people have a very limited idea of design. My previous harbingers would be proud to don the mask.” Ku growled in disgust.

“Your previous harbingers were on a desert island with nothing else to do.” Leon reminded the spirit.

“Just wake me when the killing starts.” Ku laughed before his voice went entirely silent.

Leon sorted through the rest of his equipment making sure he had the totems he wanted. As useful as they were they tended to be a better defensive tool. After being set down they could provide their abilities in a decent range. If they kept being moved the spirits would get angry and rest instead of aiding the user. With that, all sorted Leon grabbed the phone and punched in a number far longer than normal. After a bit, the phone connected and the call went through.

“Howls in the night…” Said a voice.

“Call for silver bullets,” Leon replied.

“Hey, if it isn’t Tiki McGee. How’s it going, Leon?” The voice on the other end laughed.

“Hi, Jaklo. Could be better. This isn’t a social call. We’ve become involved with a case in Maine.” Leon sighed

“Would be possible. My group just headed out to Las Vegas. Magic artifact at a big auction. Lots of nonsense in the way. Sorry that I can’t give you any help on the ground.” Jaklo sounded almost disappointed at the prospect of missing out.

“It’s fine. I was wondering if there was anything you knew about going on around the Portland area.” Leon continued

“There’s always things going on in Portland. Big port means plenty of space for things to come in and go out. Ya gotta be more specific.” Jaklo said.

“How about cults? Mental augmentation?” Leon added.

“Hmmm, I mean Maine has a pretty high population of occult users, whether they know it or not, so covens and such pop up all the time. The mental cases… well, there was one a while ago. Guy, forget the description, went raving mad was spewing absolute gibberish. The guy runs up to a cop, steals his gun, and blows his own brains out. Now there’s suicide, and there’s extremely bizarre suicide, but this we’re almost certain was murder. We have no clue on who yet, but a single case wasn’t priority when this artifact showed up in Vegas.” Jaklo explained.

“Okay, I’ll see if I can dig in on that one. Maybe get our psychic to find the guy if she can.” Leon considered as he finished jotting down a shorthand of what Jaklo had explained.

“If ya find anything out you’re more than welcome to call again. Also if ya get a chance to swing by Belfast in a few days you’re more than welcome to stop by.”

“We’ll see how this plays out. Don’t wanna be away from home longer than I have to.” Leon said with a certain finality.

“Mhmm, well talk to ya later.” Jaklo excused himself.

“Yeah, bye,” Leon said before hanging up.