The Gift of an Enemy Part II by Sylvia Mulder continued to impersonate a statue. Alex was growing more worried by the minute. The agent didn't even put up a token protest when Alex had Dahl drop them off by the rental car, pulled the keys from his pocket, and relegated him to the passenger seat. Except for the things he could no more not notice than he could stop breathing-such as the location of windows, stairs, entrances and exits, and the basic floor layout-Alex didn't notice a thing about the hotel Dahl had pointed him to. His attention was entirely occupied by Fox Mulder, who was behaving strangely even for him-completely mute, completely passive, a frightening lack of expression on his normally expressive face. He walked when Alex took his arm and propelled him in the appropriate direction. He stopped when Alex stopped. He stood motionless while Alex unlocked the door to their room, and if Alex hadn't pulled him inside, he might well have remained standing in the hall indefinitely. Hurriedly, Alex got Mulder's suitcase, shut and locked the door, and made a quick turn around the room to note possible routes of escape or attack and assure himself there was nothing suspiciously out of the ordinary. Then he walked Mulder to one of the beds. Mulder sat when Alex put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down. This was not good. In the normal run of events, Mulder would certainly have socked him in the jaw for manhandling him like that. "Fox," Alex told him gently. "This isn't the time to break down. You're not home. I'm not Scully. I can't handle this, please, don't do this. Come on, you hit me, hey, no big deal. Yeah, I know that's not what this is about, but-Fox. Come on. Don't do this." Mulder looked almost the way he looked when he was so deeply absorbed in some problem that all of his energy was focused inward, except that never before had that inner flame seemed close to being extinguished. Even in this state, he was unbearably beautiful. "It's a ridiculous thing to crack over," Alex told him more forcefully. "After all you've been through, you can't crack over talking to two nice old people! Fox, listen to me. Samantha is still out there somewhere, are you going to let her down? Hey, Fox, I killed Bill Mulder, I killed your father! Fox, damn it, look at me!" He did not. He looked as though he had never in his life cared a fig about whether Alex had or had not killed anyone by the name of Mulder. A short, mad moment had Alex teetering on the brink of admitting to killing Samantha. It seemed that if anything would snap Mulder out of it, that would-but the down side was that Alex would very probably not survive long enough to convince Mulder it was not true. Which reminded him of something. "Listen, Fox. It would be a good idea for me to take away your guns. I'm not going to do anything with them, okay? I'm just putting them somewhere out of reach." There was no protest and Mulder allowed Alex to slide a hand inside his jacket and pull the Sig Sauer from the holster. As Alex had suspected, he wore a second gun strapped to his ankle; Alex took that one as well. Damn. Mulder had to be very far gone if he was allowing Alex, Alex of all people, to disarm him. "Mulder," he whispered, kneeling in front of him and staring into the eerily calm face. "What am I going to do? You can't do this, Fox, please." Nothing. Alex slapped him, hard. He fell back across the bed and immediately turned over onto his stomach, hiding his face in the covers. Alex, who'd tensed needlessly when Mulder began to move, cursed silently. While any kind of voluntary motion was better than none, this seemed like nothing so much as an attempt to disappear. After several eternal moments, he went around to the other side of the bed and touched the back of Fox's head. He couldn't help but notice how soft his hair was-like a baby's. He'd always wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through it gently, cupping the elegant curve of skull.... Get a hold of yourself, you twisted pervert. Mulder is having a breakdown and you're thinking of his hair and the shape of his head. "Fox!" Nothing. Alex took hold of one of Mulder's shoulders and rolled him to his side. There was no resistance. His eyes were closed now, his cheeks wet with tears. His face was empty. He made no sound. Don't do this. I couldn't bear a world without you, don't you dare, I won't let you vanish into yourself like this. In truth, though, there was nothing he could do. Mulder wouldn't respond to anything he said or did-maybe if he'd been here with Scully instead of Alex it would have been a different story, maybe he'd have reacted to her presence, responded to her touch. He should call DC, tell them to send her, and then get out fast. No-better, he should get out, call DC, and get further away fast. What he did was shrug out of his jacket and kick off his shoes to crawl onto the bed next to Fox and gently, carefully, pull him into his arms. He held him very lightly at first, wondering why he was giving in to this insane urge. Sure, Mulder could probably use physical contact as an anchor right now, but how likely was it he would welcome it coming from Alex? With a sudden, convulsive motion, Mulder buried his face in Alex's chest. Alex could feel tears soak through the fabric of his shirt. He hugged Fox closer and tried to ignore the helpless desperation gnawing at him. It was simple, really. Alex would do this, and do it right, because if he didn't, Fox would pay for it, and that outcome was not acceptable. "I think you're supposed to talk a lot of nonsense about your childhood in a situation like this," he told Fox softly, keeping his voice as soothing and reassuring as he could. "Just your luck to be trapped with a guy whose stories wouldn't do very well in this context.... I could always make something up, something about apple pie and Halloween costumes and tree houses and all that, but I doubt you'd like that. You only want to hear the truth, don't you, Fox? It's one of your most endearingly stupid quirks." He considered the situation for a while and then tried to draw back. Mulder made a small, distressed sound that cut straight to Alex's heart. How do you do it, Mulder, before I met you there wasn't even a heart to cut through to.... "It's okay," Alex lied gently. "I'm only going to take off your shoes and jacket-yeah, and the holster, too. I won't put out the light. Unless you want me to? You'll have to speak up if you do. I'll leave it on if you don't-darkness makes it worse for me." Now why had he said that? So Mulder was out for the count and probably wouldn't remember any of this even if he did recover.... That was still no reason to go blabbing out information that Mulder would be only too happy to use against him. He sighed and got the blanket from the other bed. Lying back down, he pulled it over both of them and turned to draw Mulder into a gentle embrace. It was one of the longest nights of Alex's life, and that was saying something. Mulder never spoke, never made a sound, never moved beyond an occasional violent, convulsive jerk whenever he had just begun to drift off into sleep. Alex couldn't remember ever having been this terrified. Short-or not so short-moments of intense fear for his life were nothing compared to the bone-deep, soul-deep, helpless dread that Fox Mulder might very well have broken at last. Once he'd noticed his voice seemed to relax Mulder somewhat, he talked continuously, growing increasingly hoarse. He didn't talk about himself. He talked about books he'd read, movies he'd seen, even-with careful editing-places he'd been. He informed an unresponsive Fox what he thought about every actor, writer, politician, or other famous person that occurred to him, alive or dead. Some time in the early hours of the new day, he thought Mulder sank into a light sleep; at least his breathing evened out and some of the tension left his body. He kept talking, willing himself not to drift off, keeping his own demons at bay with the threat of what would happen to Mulder if he failed. Close to dawn, dizzy with fatigue and numb with fear, Alex suddenly found himself talking about himself after all. "It doesn't have to be this bad for you, Fox," he whispered to the man in his arms. "There's no reason to tear yourself up like this. Not everyone does. You have to stop, it's killing you. And now that you know she's still alive-it wasn't her, if it had been, I couldn't have killed her, not your sister, I know I could never have killed anyone like you. She's probably out there worrying because she knows you're tearing yourself up like this-she can't come to you, you know-she would if she could, but they're watching you and it might mean both of your deaths. Hers, for certain, and maybe a mind-wipe for you, if you're lucky. She's smart, it's a smart decision not to come to you, she's smarter than you, and smarter than me, too. I did go, you know-when they'd cut me loose, tried to kill me. I knew where they lived, I'd broken into the files years ago. Not the ones they kept for me to break into, or the back-up fakes in case I saw through that. The real ones." Alex paused to pull Mulder closer. He was tired-too tired, and much too cold and empty inside to think about why he was telling this story-it didn't matter. Mulder would never remember. Hell, he wasn't even awake. "They're all still alive, Fox. Every one. My parents still live in the same house. But I didn't want to see them. I went to my brother-my older brother Mikhail. Misha. He was-he'd always been-perfect. Brilliant, charming, popular-he could do anything he turned his mind to, never had to expend much effort. Everyone loved him. I certainly did. I used to follow him around like a dog, and he never even tried to get rid of me. I loved him, Fox. I had to go see him. I knew it was a bad idea, that they'd be bound to be watching him, but I did it anyway. I was careful, and I didn't get caught, but it was still a stupid risk to take-maybe they didn't think I'd be that dumb. Maybe that's the reason I'm still alive." He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the top of Mulder's head. "He's a judge. I knew he'd be something like that. Andy's a dentist, I'll admit that did take me by surprise. Don't know why anyone would want to poke around in other people's bad teeth, do you, Fox? Tascha's a biologist. Specializing in genetics. Not very wise, it's much too close to my father's job. But as far as I can tell they haven't pulled her in yet. And Raisa-she's an actress. Must have driven my father crazy. I went to see Mikhail in his office, after hours. He didn't know me at first-I think he thought I was some ex-con he'd put behind bars who'd come back for revenge. He wasn't truly afraid, though. He's got some of that idiot moral courage of yours. Not as beautiful, not as pure, but then no one can hope to match you there." Alex would never forget the look of utter shock and disbelief in his brother's eyes when he told him who he was. Nor the slowly dawning belief... the fear, and the cold stiffness poorly hidden beneath the thin veneer of polite welcome. "When he realized who I was-that was when he began to be afraid," he went on softly. "He told me he was glad I was alive and well, but why had I come to see him? He was married, had two children. He had nothing to do with the organization. Which is not true, Fox-he does small things for them, not often, but every couple of years or so they want someone set free or some documents to disappear.... He just does it and tries to forget, apparently. I think he more than half believes he has nothing to do with them himself, so I didn't tell him I knew better. Anyway, Mikhail told me about the others, that they were all fine and happy and that I should keep away from them so it would stay that way. He asked me how much I wanted to make me keep away from his family, from his wife and kids and sisters and brother Andrei. His family. And he's right, you know. It's not mine anymore." Misha used to toss Alex into the air and catch him again. He'd never been afraid of being dropped-not even after Misha had dropped him once or twice. He'd still wanted to be tossed, but Misha had refused, saying he was getting too heavy, that he wouldn't risk Alex getting hurt. Alex had taken the money from him. He hadn't come for it, but he had needed it desperately. So he'd taken it and ignored the expression in his brother's eyes, the disgust at what he thought had been blackmail. The thought had not previously occurred to Alex, but he filed it away for possible future reference. It was survival. He would do whatever it took to survive. It was what he'd been shaped for. He had been made into a weapon that would preserve itself at all costs... but there was a flaw in him, and he could blame only himself for it. It was lying in his arms right now. The one price Alex would not pay. Not for survival. Not for anything. "He's right, Fox," he repeated. "I shouldn't have come. And he was right to forget. There was nothing he could do. It's what you should have done, Fox. Forget. It's the only possible way. Imagine how Sam feels when she sees you torture yourself over her-and she can't get to you, can't do anything to help you, she has to watch you tear yourself apart. You have to stop this, Fox. You have to find some way to stop." Fox Mulder lay huddled in his arms and made no sound. At least he hadn't been crying anymore in the last hours. At least he'd stopped waking violently from the brink of sleep. He was asleep now, asleep and healing. Please, Fox, be healing. Alex talked some more about Russia, some more about literature, and then, just before consciousness finally slipped from his grasp, he talked about the way Fox smelled and felt and what he imagined he would taste like. Or perhaps he was already asleep and only dreamt he talked about that-he was never entirely sure afterwards. Mulder awoke wrapped in the arms of his worst enemy, his left cheek pressed against the man's throat and a light weight resting on his head that could only be a hand. He stiffened instinctively. Immediately, there was a subtle change in the body pressed along his-nothing as obvious as his own abrupt movement, but enough to be noticed at this immediate range. Krycek was awake, too. The chest against Mulder's side heaved as a small sigh gusted against the back of his head. "Thought we were past that...." The voice was rough and scratchy, as though Krycek had a bad cold. "All right. Let's see, Gogol. I've only ever seen one play by him, so I can't really judge, but that was very funny. You would have liked it, it was mean and ironic, full of biting wit and cutting sarcasm. You like that kind of thing, don't you, Fox? It was about a small town in Russia under some Tsar or other-" "Don't call me Fox," he snapped automatically, his voice muffled by Krycek's shoulder. Krycek did stiffen now. The hand was removed from Mulder's head and the body wrapped almost protectively around his withdrew. Mulder rolled over and glared at a rumpled, drawn Krycek, who was regarding him warily from where he stood beside the bed. He looked like death warmed over, eyes bloodshot, face stubbly and almost translucently pale except for the deep smudges under his eyes and the purplish bruise marking his left cheekbone, but the familiar alertness gleamed in his eyes. "Mulder," he said slowly, almost as though testing the waters. "Are you okay?" "Of course I am," he snarled and sat up. This was all wrong. Where was he, and how in hell had he ended up in bed with Krycek? Mulder searched his memory for some kind of explanation, but came up empty. He'd been in the police station, talking to the sheriff. How had he gone from talking to the sheriff to... this? This was ridiculous. Mulder did not wake up in unfamiliar beds with no recollection of how he'd gotten there-and Christ, certainly not with Krycek. It was all wrong.... Thank God Mulder was still wearing his clothes, at least. It was bad enough suddenly finding himself in a strange bed, being clutched by Alex Krycek. Mulder didn't even want to think about- But... wait. His gun. Where the hell was his gun? Krycek noticed his panicked expression, correctly surmised the cause, and nodded towards the table at the far side of the room, his face closed into cool impassivity. "Over there." He slid out of bed on the side across from Krycek and went to retrieve his gun. Gun, singular. "Where the hell is the other one?" Krycek looked about as innocent as a man splattered with blood, caught with a knife and half a dozen still-warm bodies. "Krycek, where the fuck is my second gun!" The other man's expression turned from feigned innocence to stone. "You don't need two, Mulder. I need a weapon. I didn't shoot you while you slept, did I? You can relax, I don't need it for you." Mulder's first instinct was to smash the bastard's face with the gun he did have and force him to reveal the hiding place of the missing one. He'd even moved a step closer when his mind suddenly registered the bruise on the other man's face. Events clicked into place with an almost audible snap. Interrogating the Ritters. Taking a swing at Krycek, who saw it coming and stood still. Krycek bringing him out of the hotel. Krycek steering him into Dahl's car, into his own rented car, and finally into this hotel, this room, this bed. Krycek holding him while he screamed inside. Krycek's voice talking to him. Mulder dropped the gun back on the table and fled into the bathroom. How could he have allowed this to happen? This wasn't the kind of thing that happened to him. It was completely impermissible; Mulder refused to be betrayed by his own mind. He had depressions, but he did not lapse into catatonic states. He was fucked up, but he wasn't that fucked up-this was the first time anything like this had taken place, and it was going to be the last. He could not-and would not-let it happen again. No way in hell. Definitely not. And of all the rotten timing.... If Mulder had been asked to make a list of the people he least wanted to see him in such a vulnerable state, Alex Krycek would certainly have been among the top five. Of course, it was strangely typical that the man's response to Mulder's lapse should be so completely unlike anything Mulder would have expected. He had always possessed a disturbing talent for catching Mulder off guard. In a way, it made sense that Krycek had stepped in to take charge so smoothly that Mulder's state had apparently passed unnoticed by anyone but him-after all, Mulder's hospitalization would have been likely to draw the immediate attention of people whose interest would have endangered Krycek. What he had done after they'd arrived at the hotel, however.... Every word Krycek had said was burned into Mulder's memory. He knew from experience that he would never be able to forget it, not even if he tried. It was unusual for him to remember aural impressions so clearly-his eidetic memory was primarily visual. But he could run every word Krycek had said, complete with inflection, tone, every nuance of expression, past his mind, and while he brushed his teeth, shaved, and showered, he did. Most of it was nonsense, much of it one-sided discussions about books Mulder would never have suspected Krycek of reading. He used the name "Fox" constantly. Sound psychological practice when dealing with a disturbed person. Mostly it was uninteresting in itself, if fascinating for the fact that Krycek had bothered talking himself hoarse at all. There were several very interesting portions of the monologue, though. The very beginning, when he'd still been trying to get a reaction out of Mulder. That passage near the end where he'd been talking about his family and his visit to his brother... and the very end, when his voice had been heavy with exhaustion and dark from talking too long. "You're like a silver blade," the memory of Krycek murmured in Mulder's mind, his voice low and rough. "Sharp and precise and bright and beautiful. It burns my soul to look at you." Briefly, Mulder entertained the thought that it was a phrase from one of the books Krycek had been talking about earlier. Part of a poem, perhaps. It was possible, but he didn't believe it for a single moment. When he returned to the room, Krycek was curled up in the other bed, sound asleep. Mulder silently walked around the foot of the bed so he could see the other man's face. Innocent and exhausted, much the way he'd looked in Mulder's bathtub, though the livid bruise made him look even paler now. He was the one who was beautiful. There was nothing feminine about him, but his features were somehow too finely drawn to be called handsome. And then, of course, there were those ridiculously long lashes. And the nose. A pert nose. A cute nose. Cold-blooded killers shouldn't have noses like that. Why did the man have to look like that? It made everything much more difficult. But then, that was why they'd chosen him in the first place. Krycek had been telling the truth in one respect, at least-he hadn't really been trying to seduce Mulder, at least not after the very beginning of their partnership. If he had, he would have succeeded. Even at the time, Mulder had been slightly dismayed at the sharp disappointment he'd felt when it seemed young, eager Agent Krycek had changed his mind and decided it would be better to keep their relationship on a purely professional level-maybe build up a friendship, but leave it at that. Of course, this was the only sensible thing to do, but still.... Mulder had wondered if it had been his peculiarities that had caused Krycek's change of heart. He knew most people considered him too strange to associate with, let alone take to bed. It didn't usually bother him-after all, he himself considered most people too unintelligent, narrow-minded, and tedious to associate with... let alone take to bed. But Krycek hadn't seemed unintelligent, only inexperienced. And not at all narrow-minded or tedious. After some brooding, Mulder had settled on the more palatable alternative that Krycek hadn't been aware of the signals he'd been sending. In a society which still frowned on homosexual relationships, many people suppressed such urges automatically and never grew consciously aware of their attraction to another person of the same gender. It had seemed plausible at the time. Only later, once Krycek's true colors had been revealed, had Mulder become completely confused. Of course it was still possible Krycek hadn't known what he was doing-moving into Mulder's personal space, sitting too close, touching his arm, his shoulder. Giving him that slow, inviting smile. Looking at him with that intense, fascinated expression in his eyes. Possible, but not damn likely. It had seemed equally unlikely that Krycek had simply wanted to avoid emotional involvement. The man was hardly the type who'd have to worry about becoming attached to someone merely because he slept with them. And now it had turned out the reason Krycek hadn't finished what he'd started was that he'd liked Mulder. He'd liked him, and so he'd lied to him, stolen from him, betrayed him, killed his father-but hadn't seduced him. Bizarre, perhaps, but perfectly logical in its way. So why hadn't Mulder been able to see it? He was a profiler-usually, he could read hidden motives with almost uncanny precision, even when he had next to no information to work with. What was it about Krycek that got in the way of all his instincts? Whatever it was, it had been there from the first time they'd met, when Mulder had looked up from the stupendously boring and frustratingly pointless work they'd dumped on him to keep him safely out of the way. Krycek. Alex Krycek. Standing there like a kid who'd wandered in by mistake. Looking like a complete idiot with his hand stuck out, wearing that ridiculous wide-eyed, hopeful little-boy smile. Wasn't an idiot though, as it turned out. Just a cold-blooded killer who even then had probably had more lives on his non-existent conscience than the rest of the people in that office put together. Mulder should have been wary, uneasy, skeptical.... He should have sensed that something about his new partner didn't ring quite true, that he was too green and awkward at some times, too sharp and alert at others. How could he have missed the way those soft, admiring eyes turned hard and cold as green ice when he was angry, when he concentrated? Mulder stared down at the sleeping young murderer for several more heartbeats before shaking his head and going to get dressed. Interviewing the mayor's wife was like trying to hold an eel. The woman had probably started out as her husband's publicity manager. She was amazing. She'd doubtless be able to hold speeches two or three hours long without allowing a single statement with meaning to escape her lips. "Rick was never a difficult child though. Most children are difficult at one stage or another-I don't know if you have children, Agent Mulder? No? Well, perhaps you will one day, and I assure you there will be times when you will despair of ever bringing the task of child-rearing to a satisfactory close. Now, it is true that due to my husband's position, we were sometimes forced to be absent rather more than we liked-" "Mrs. Lowborough." She stopped, a polite smile pasted onto her perfectly made-up lips. She looked like a character from a daily soap-the perfect, energetic wife and mother who worked half-days at some sober, serious, responsible job, took an active interest in every charity in the vicinity, and turned up with a cake saying "Get Well Soon" whenever one of the neighbors sprained an ankle. Ten minutes after setting foot in her house, Mulder had come to the conclusion that she and Mayor Lowborough had found out years ago that they hated each other and were now staying together out of a sense of responsibility for their son, because she liked being the mayor's wife, because he knew she was good for votes, and, of course, for tax reasons. "I'd like to speak to your son now." She frowned slightly. "He is very distressed about this incident, Agent Mulder. I don't want him reminded of these unfortunate happenings. My husband and I have been letting him stay home from school in order to give him time to recover without being questioned on events he should put behind him as soon as possible. I'm certain I can provide you with any information you may require." Mulder stood halfway into her delivery, but waited her out before speaking. "I have to speak to your son in person. Regulations." He'd pushed the right button. Regulations-the magic word. "Oh I suppose there's no help for it then," she murmured in a long-suffering tone. The reflexive little pat she gave her hair had a martyred quality. "I'll have Anita call him down. Please do be careful how you talk with him, Agent Mulder. Are you quite certain you wouldn't prefer me to remain in the room? Well, I'll be right around the corner in the kitchen-if you want anything, you need only call." Mulder nodded distractedly, wondering whether her husband had shouted at her about the hair-patting mannerism yet. It was bound to figure in the divorce papers in a couple of years' time. "Certainly." She sniffed daintily and hovered for a beat or two before she took herself off in a cloud of expensive perfume. It took longer than it should have for Lowborough Junior to make his appearance. Mulder didn't mind the wait-he wandered around the room and inspected the pictures standing on the mantel. A picture of Mrs. Lowborough as a younger and blonder woman, already very polished, already wearing the same practiced smile. A completely bald baby, looking confused and lying on a fluffy rug in front of the photographer's mock fireplace. A distinguished-looking man on a golf course, beaming into the camera benevolently, obviously suffering from a terminal case of campaign-poster-posing face-rictus. He hummed to himself as he strolled over to the window and looked out over the carefully tended lawn. The garden had been landscaped to death-it looked so artificial it might as well have belonged to a doll-house. Mulder was in top form. With yesterday's crisis, the depression had blown over. He refused to dwell on the form the crisis in question had taken-after all, what mattered was that he was all there again, set and ready to fathom the unfathomable. During the drive over, he'd decided that Krycek's confused talk of silver blades wasn't anything he needed to attach special significance to. The strange choice of words could no doubt be accounted for by nothing more remarkable than severe exhaustion, the after-effects of having an alien rummage through his memories, and a complete lack of anything more intelligent to say. Silver blade, indeed. Maybe it was an idiom directly translated from the Russian-perhaps Krycek had been saying something like "My, but you're a sick weirdo aren't you, it gives me heartburn just to look at someone as fucked up as you." "Agent Molder?" Mulder turned to face the teenager who slouched in the doorway to the living room with a mulish set to his jaw. Frederick Johann Cristoph Lowborough, the mayor's son, was a case straight from the textbooks-permanent rebellious frown, long hair loose down his back, torn black jeans, torn black tee-shirt, small silver earrings.... The fact that his hair was golden and curled into ringlets remarkably like those of a Christmas angel must cause him no end of chagrin. He'd probably dye it black sooner or later. "The name's Mulder, Mr. Lowbrow." The return shot went right over his head. "Mulder, Molder, whatever," Frederick Johann Cristoph muttered, flopping down in an easy chair and giving the older man a look along the sides of a nose several sizes too large for the rest of his face. "Is your name really Fox?" How about that-it seemed the mayor's son had a little problem with figures of authority. "That's right," Mulder said evenly. "Is your name really Frederick Johann Cristoph?" He bristled defensively. "Hey, that wasn't my idea. Just call me Rick, okay?" "Very well. I'm sure you already know why I'm here, Rick." There was a drawn-out pause. "Yeah," Frederick Johann Cristoph mumbled at last, tugging at a long golden curl and avoiding Mulder's eyes. "'Cause of Emma. Emma Lawrence." "That's right," Mulder prodded when nothing further seemed forthcoming. "Tell me about Emma, Rick. When did you first meet her?" "Oh, I don't know," he muttered indistinctly and shot a longing glance at the door. "About three months ago I guess; in the summer, anyway." Mulder waited out the silence that followed and finally the kid gave up, heaving a heavy sigh and resigning himself to the inevitable. "There's really nothing much to tell. She's-just like a girl. I mean, she is a girl, I suppose, but-it all seems so strange, she seemed so normal. Well, no, not exactly normal, she was too beautiful for that. And I could really talk with her-she was very interested in my writing. I write, you know, I'm going to be a screenwriter. I told her about the script I was working on then, she even helped me with some bits. It's about a man who comes home in disguise after years of being a terrorist, and he discovers his brother's convinced their father, who's a very important man in the local government, that the ex-terrorist was plotting against him, and so now he's disinherited and his father thinks he's his enemy, even though they really always got along very well before, and the ex-terrorist was fighting for a good cause, at least in the beginning, but his men got away from him and now he's disillusioned, and his brother's also tried to marry his girlfriend, but she threatened to commit suicide...." Mulder sighed very loudly. Frederick glanced at him and shrugged, the animation fading from his features. "Anyway, I thought she was really special. Emma, I mean. Most girls are so strange." "Hmm," Mulder said noncommittally. "But she never giggled or said stupid things like 'you big silly you.'" "Oh?" "No. And so I asked her out a couple times-I met her in the library, you know." "Really?" Mulder asked, noting an instant too late that the word would doubtless be interpreted as conveying surprise at the information that Rick spent time in libraries when, in fact it had been meant to express interest in Emma Lawrence's presence there. Fortunately, Frederick Johann Cristoph was too caught up in his narrative to take offense. "I saw her several times, we went to the movies and, you know, we went, well, walking, in the woods." The aspiring screenwriter turned beet red. "You know?" Mulder thought back to Dahl's specification of when the Lawrence's were entitled to snag locals. "I believe I do. And she was then entitled to you under the terms of the Lawrence pact with the town of Weimar." Frederick's head snapped up. "What?" Mulder looked at him thoughtfully. "Never mind. What happened then?" The teenager sighed and lowered his eyes again, nervously picking at the razor slashes in his jeans. "Dad caught wind of it. I think one of his cronies saw us together. He made a big scene and locked me up. He actually locked the door! I didn't even know there was a key-he locked me in, just like that! And I had a date with her the next day." With a small shudder, he slouched down further in the chair. "It hurt. It really hurt. For a long time." "Can you explain in what way it hurt?" "Not really. It was-well, like I was about to throw up and burst something, some internal organ, at the same time. I can't describe it. It was really horrible. Anyway, I knew it was because I wasn't going to her. And I had to. I thought I was going to die. I had to see her, I couldn't live unless I did." A dissatisfied frown appeared on his face as he thought his words over. "No, that doesn't sound right-that makes it sound as though it was some kind of romantic thing-but it wasn't that at all, I mean, I did think I was in love with her at one point, but.... Well. You know." Mulder raised his eyebrows. "No, Rick, I don't. You no longer think you are in love with her?" Rick stared at him with a very peculiar look on his face. "I don't love anyone who does that kind of thing to me. She hurt me. She did it on purpose. Would you love anyone who hurt you like that on purpose?" After a brief, startled moment, Mulder decided the question had been purely rhetorical and could be ignored. "You think the pain was caused by her in some way?" "It was. I knew it. I could feel it. She was trying to force me to come to her. And I would have, only I couldn't, and that's why it hurt. She hurt me. She really hurt me. And it went on for a long time-it took a couple of days, at least my parents say so. I don't really remember-it just seems like a really long time. And then, it-the pain-dissolved in me-like-like an ice-cube. It-went apart and drained out, somehow, and the pull-the pain stopped and I couldn't feel her trying to force me anymore and I was so afraid it would come back but it hasn't." "Did she introduce you to other members of her family? Talk about them? Were you ever at her house?" He shook his head without looking up. "Nah. She never talked about family and things like that. I didn't either." "You knew she was a Lawrence?" Reluctant nod. "She told you?" "The librarian did, she was trying to warn me off. And of course I knew all of the Lawrence ghost stories, but I didn't think there was anything to them." He gave a bitter laugh. "Guess there's truth in every fable." More a question of the truth in an old wives' tale.... This was definitely an X-File. He spent several hours interviewing hospital personnel about Margaret Ritter, tracking down people who'd known her as a girl-no one knew anything about an involvement with any of the Lawrences-and trying to form some kind of impression of the Lawrence family from public records. There wasn't much to go on. There were no criminal records, and if the Lawrences married, died, or gave birth, then they did it in private and with no one the wiser. The family employed private tutors-private tutors from out of town who lived with them and about whom nothing was known-so there were no school records at all. There was no indication that any Lawrence had ever held down a job; Mulder had put in a request for the Lawrences' tax records, but at this point, he'd be very surprised if there was any useful information to be garnered from them. Still, the state's property tax records should at least shed light on the question of who the titular owner of the family's land-and therefore the nominal head of the family-was. He recruited Riley to help him and spent the rest of the day hunched over a microfiche reader in the Weimar Daily's archive, going through fifty years' worth of newspaper reports about missing persons. The Lawrences were only mentioned a handful of times, and never in connection with any of the disappearances. There was something about a speech given by one Graham T. Lawrence on an anniversary of the town's founding by his ancestor Terence G. Lawrence, something on a track award won by Celia Lawrence, and other such uninformative things. Going by the evidence on file here-the lack of evidence, rather-no one could possibly have suspected that anything out-of-the-ordinary was going on in Weimar. "I'm about to toss this thing through the window," Riley announced at last. "Blast it, these people can't be that clean. No one is that clean. Seems like none of them ever even got a parking ticket. But then no one knows whether they even have cars." She snorted in disgust. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but the way that guy popped up out of nowhere-I don't know what they'd need cars for." Mulder smiled at the expression on her face-she was plainly aghast at hearing herself say something so manifestly ridiculous. "It's okay," he told her and swung around in his chair, snapping the reader off. "You'll get used to it." She looked horrified. "Good God, I hope not. This is madness. Are you trying to tell me you're used to this kind of thing?" He felt his smile turn wry. "Yes. But then I never really had much trouble crediting out of the ordinary explanations for out of the ordinary phenomena. Quite often, the so-called sensible conjectures arrived at to provide a conventional solution are extremely far-fetched and illogical, and yet they are preferred to more viable alternatives merely because the association of certain ideas with the impossible is so deeply ingrained in the human mind. It's completely arbitrary." Riley got up with a small groan and stretched, rubbing her back with one hand. "I have to put something in my stomach while I think about that. There's a pretty good spaghetti joint round the corner-care to join me?" He considered briefly before shaking his head. "Not tonight. Tomorrow?" She regarded him for a moment and then nodded decisively. "It's a date, Agent Mulder." When they got out of the newspaper's archive building, Dahl was lurking in the petunias and promptly attached himself to Riley, who bore it stoically. Mulder picked up a sandwich from a deli at the corner and drove to the hotel to see what Krycek had been up to. The first clue was the empty room-service trays stacked in the corridor. The second was the boxes and bags neatly arranged next to the door inside the room. On inspection, they proved to contain several shirts and ties, two tasteful and obviously quite expensive suits, a pair of jeans, tee-shirts, a sweater, a pair of shoes, underwear, and a duffel bag. Krycek himself was in bed, pointing a very familiar-looking gun at Mulder's head. "Oh, it's you," he said. Tucking the gun under his pillow, he turned over and gave every appearance of immediately going back to sleep. Mulder briefly struggled with the urge to rush to the bed and retrieve his gun, maybe preparatory to clouting Krycek on the head with it. "Krycek." A subtle tension in the still form announced he was listening. Mulder paused while he wondered what to say. What do you think this is, a shopping trip? Killed anyone while I was out? What does silver blade mean in Russian? Are you really nude beneath that sheet or does it just look like it from where I'm standing? "Have you been sleeping all day?" He turned over to look at Mulder again, exposing a bare shoulder and part of a broad chest. His face was stony, his voice hard and cold. "Not quite, Mulder-I had to go down to the police station to fill in some of the blanks on my missing brother, if you remember him. Apart from that and the time I spent on the phone ordering up food and clothes, however, I've been lolling about in bed all day. So sorry to offend your work ethics." Mulder hadn't meant to make an accusation out of the question. It was no wonder Krycek was exhausted. In fact, it was surprising he'd held up as well as he had. The night before last, immediately following near death through alien possession, he'd gotten four or five hours of sleep at most.... And judging from his wild-eyed and frantic appearance when Mulder had rushed in, it hadn't been particularly restful sleep, either. The naps he'd taken on the plane and in the car on the way to Weimar couldn't have helped all that much, and last night-well. Even now, his voice was still huskier than usual. Mulder decided to postpone the subject of who was supposed to pay for Krycek's little shopping spree. "There are witches in Weimar," he announced instead. Krycek's expression changed, eased. He watched Mulder for a moment before sitting up and sliding back to lean comfortably against the headboard, the sheet draped about his waist. He did seem to be nude. Mulder pretended not to notice. "By witches, I mean beings with unusual abilities. Perhaps aliens or even pushers, perhaps something else entirely. The mayor's son was almost taken by one of them, Emma Lawrence, who looks and acts more or less like a normal girl. He took her to the movies, slept with her, and was put in agony by her through some kind of psychic connection when he didn't show up for a date because his father'd locked him in. After several days, the contact dissolved and hasn't been re-established. Apparently this was what the father expected-he told Riley he was locking his son up until it passed. Emma hadn't gotten a permanent hold yet, there was still something missing, which was why she hadn't taken him away yet. She was still in the process of binding him to her." He paused to consider, going on slowly. "Interesting that the locals have to sleep with them to be eligible for being taken. Perhaps intercourse is a technical necessity rather than a legal prerequisite for taking Weimarians. Quite a number of cultures associate the sexual act with supernatural rituals or ascribe special karmic or spiritual energy to it. In fact-in Medieval Europe, it was accepted doctrine that when communing with their master, the devil, witches had sexual intercourse with him. This Lawrence phenomenon may very well be the basis for the connection of the practice of witchcraft to sex." "Or maybe it's just that human beings tend to connect more or less everything to sex?" Krycek said dryly. "But it fits!" Mulder insisted, beginning to pace and gesture while he spoke. "This may also be the basis for the numerous legends about demonic seductresses-mostly seductresses, patriarchal cultures tend to favor myths tailored to men-that crop up in almost all cultures. They go back for millennia-the old Babylonians describe a seductress sent to estrange Enkidu from the animals and bring him to Gilgamesh-and that epic goes back to almost two thousand years BC." Krycek's mouth quirked with something that was not quite a smile. "Your theory about the sexual component of the binding practices of the Weimar witches is plausible, considering the evidence at hand. However, I don't think your attempt to claim the Gilgamesh epos as corroborative evidence is very promising." It wasn't often that one of Mulder's theories was accepted with grace-most often, even irrefutable proof didn't make people believe. Even when they had forced their conscious mind to accept what they knew must be true, as Deputy Riley was doing in the case of the Weimar witches, they still couldn't bring themselves to believe. Not in the true, instinctive, real sense. And they never stopped looking at him in that particular half mocking, half disbelieving way because he made it so clear that yes, he did believe. Mulder was accustomed to fighting other people's resistance to any idea that fell outside the narrow boundaries of their fixed, limited little worldviews. He hardly noticed the constant strain it put him under anymore... except in the rare moments when the strain eased. Moments that felt like a deep, clean draught of air after years of struggling for breath. Moments like the one brought on by the calm, matter-of-fact acceptance in Krycek's tone. In Krycek's, his enemy's, tone. With a small shock, Mulder realized he was reminding himself of the fact Krycek was his enemy. When had that become necessary? "So," Krycek said easily. "What exactly have you found out so far?" Mulder hesitated for a long moment, torn between the need to pour out his thoughts, ordering them while he spoke, and the reluctance to tell this man anything at all, let alone something that might imply they were working on the case together. When they had still been working together-when Mulder had still been fool enough to believe they were working together-he'd begun to see Krycek's take on a case as an at least potentially valuable contribution towards solving it. Worth listening to, in any event. Even worth asking for. What the hell. Might as well put him to some use. Alex Krycek listened attentively and with unfeigned interest as Mulder recounted his day's findings-or rather, the lack of findings. It was the same open, receptive look he'd so often worn as Mulder's partner. After brief initial distrust, Mulder had taken it at surface value then; he'd taken it to mean that Krycek would not discount any theory Mulder threw out-no matter how bizarre it might seem at first-without thinking it through. He'd taken it to mean that if Krycek did not find solid arguments against it-arguments not involving reasoning like "that's simply absurd" or "I don't believe in that kind of thing"-then he wouldn't reject it. Had that receptiveness been real or had it merely been part of the pretense? Had any of Krycek's seeming hero-worship, his respect and even admiration for Mulder's work, been real? Mulder considered asking this question. He looked at Krycek and found he was afraid of the answer-afraid of the truth. How ironic that the man who had betrayed him was the only person who had ever seemed ready-even eager-to believe in him. And how ironic that even after all that had passed between them, something in Mulder still turned over with hopeless longing at that particular look in a pair of dark green eyes. No, ironic was the wrong word. Damned stupid, that's what it was. Because the man was a murderer and a traitor and nothing could change that. Not the fact that other people had made the choices that had shaped him. Not that he had resisted forces Mulder could only vaguely imagine to retain part of himself. Not the amazing inner strength that had enabled him to survive with his spirit unbroken. Not the quick intelligence, the edged, sharp, self-deprecating wit. Not the strange willingness to help that had led him to hold Mulder and talk him through a crisis that might well have been much more severe but for his efforts. Not that, sitting in bed wearing nothing except the bandages on his wrists-with tousled dark hair, moss-green eyes, stubbly cheeks, a bruise on his cheek, and his perfectly sculpted chest bare-he was the most alluring thing Mulder had ever seen. "I'm tired," Mulder announced decisively. He didn't want to think too much about Krycek and his betrayal. Not when he'd just begun to feel human again. And besides, he was tired. In the morning, Mulder stood next to his ex-partner's bed and watched him sleep while he tied the knot of his tie. Krycek was curled on his right side like a cat, his arm tucked beneath the pillow. Touching the gun. Holding it, maybe. There were not many people Mulder believed capable of using a loaded gun as a security blanket without running the risk of accidentally shooting someone, most probably themselves. Alex Krycek, for all of his nightmares and panic attacks, was one of them. Guns seemed to melt into his hand when he held them. Just another part of him. He looked much better now-the unnaturally pale cast to his skin had faded, leaving him with an almost golden complexion marred only by the bruise he would be carrying for a while yet. Mulder felt a twinge of remorse. But he hadn't been in control of himself at the time-and Krycek could have ducked, had started to, in fact. Why the hell hadn't he? It was his own fault. It was a gift, this innocence in repose. Krycek was always attractive, but most of the time it was possible to forget, or at least ignore, the fact. But when he was asleep, there was a stillness about him.... For want of a better word, a purity.... A strange immaculateness. A lie. But it brought out the perfect, elegant bone-structure, the long dark lashes, the small, slightly up-tilted nose.... The sensual line of the mouth.... Mulder swept his gaze downwards. The sheet had slipped to Krycek's waist again, revealing a well-muscled but not bulky arm, an equally well-formed chest. His gaze wandered along the elegant curve of collarbone to the hollow of the throat, the smooth sweep of the neck, the perfect line of the jaw.... The watchful, forest-green eyes. "Well, do I get the Mulder seal of approval?" Krycek asked sharply. Aggressively. On the defensive? Mulder allowed his gaze to sweep over Krycek again and the other man shifted, uncurling and scooting back slightly. Yes-definitely on the defensive. Did he get the Mulder seal of approval? Yes. Definitely yes. "You haven't grown antennae," he said. He waited for comprehension to widen Krycek's eyes before reaching out. "Mulder," Krycek said, his voice low and full of warning. Mulder slowly ran his hand up the exposed arm, enjoying the feel of sleep-warm, smooth skin over firm muscle. Skimmed over the scar tissue near the shoulder and trailed his fingers lightly but firmly along the collarbone to the base of the throat. Krycek, already tense, tensed up further and drew a slightly shuddery breath. Mulder ran his hand up the side of the neck, carefully avoided the bruise while skimming over the cheek. He brushed the lips lightly with his thumb. Soft as silk. Slightly warmer than the rest of him. They opened under his touch. Krycek was breathing hard and there was a wild look in his eyes. "Mulder, stop." "Not just yet," he said absently and gently touched his hand to Krycek's chin, cupping it in the palm of his hand and stroking down the elegant line of the throat. Krycek arched his neck. It looked like an all but involuntary movement. Mulder repeated the caress and the other man tipped his head further back, exposing his throat. Looking strangely vulnerable.... Lips slightly parted, eyes very dark. Pupils distended. "You're beautiful," Mulder said softly, wonderingly. Down, along the tense muscles of the chest, the abdomen. So beautiful.... "Mulder. This is a bad idea." Two days ago-one day ago-Mulder would have agreed. Now, with Krycek nude and warm and enticing beneath his hand.... Now, he knew better. "Why?" he murmured, stroking firm muscles that fluttered beneath his touch. "Because I say so," Krycek said, his voice harsh and not at all steady. "You know the song and dance about the right to a choice, I'm not about to go into that." "Completely unnecessary," Mulder agreed and leaned in to brush his lips against Krycek's. Krycek tried to move back, but Mulder slipped his left hand around the nape of his neck and held him steady while he traced the sensual lips with his tongue. Gently at first, then more insistently as the desire heating his blood rose to consume his reason. When the mouth failed to open, he drew the lower lip between his teeth and nibbled gently. The breathless little gasp Krycek gave made Mulder's stomach clench with pure lust. He began to slide the hand lying on the other man's stomach lower, but Krycek grabbed his wrist. "Don't-" The left hand, then. He was lovely.... Body solid with muscle, but lithe and slender. Eyes wide and oh-so-green. Breath coming in harsh gasps. He felt so right.... Krycek gave a strangled, helpless-sounding growl as Mulder brushed aside the sheet and gently curled his fingers around an already erect cock. He tightened his grip slightly, experimentally. Satiny skin and heat.... Alex. It took a long moment for Mulder's desire-fogged mind to alert him to the fact that the quiet little snick had been the sound of a safety coming off. A pair of arctic-green eyes bored into his. "Mulder," Krycek said, his voice rough with desire. "If you don't take your hands off me right now, I'm going to do something we'll both regret." Mulder froze. The body beneath his hands shuddered slightly, chest rising and falling rapidly, but the muzzle of the gun aimed at his head was rock-steady. "Would you really shoot me?" Mulder asked after a moment. Krycek began to speak. Stopped. Hesitated. After a long moment, he closed his eyes. The hand holding the gun sank to his side. Turning his face sideways into the pillow, he said, "No." Mulder looked down at the lovely body now sprawled out in surrender, considered the erection, the flushed skin, the accelerated breathing. The strangely forlorn expression on his face. "Damn you," he growled and forced himself to let go, step back-stop touching him. It was almost impossible. It felt so right.... Mulder turned and fled while he still had the necessary willpower. He was distantly aware that the overwhelming sense of rightness he felt when touching Krycek should have been worrying him, would inevitably worry him later. At the moment, though, all Mulder knew was frustrated desire singing in his blood and confusion over where this almost irresistible urge to touch, to taste, to have, to own had come from. He was even too aroused to be dismayed at the discovery that all he truly wanted at this moment was to make Alex Krycek scream when he came. They were both trying to pretend nothing had happened. It wasn't working, of course. Alex might have pulled it off-probably was pulling it off-but it was hopeless when Mulder was acting the way he was. Mulder was really bad at this kind of thing. He kept flashing Alex nervous little glances of disbelief and a kind of low-grade horror that gave him away from miles off. Thank God Alex had managed to stop him. If Mulder was acting this way over a grope.... Granted, a pretty extended and thorough grope, but still just a grope. And Alex had never even laid a finger on Mulder. Maybe he should have. It had probably been the only chance he'd ever get to touch him without being back-handed into a wall or kicked in the ribs. And he'd let it slip past. What harm would it have done? Mulder couldn't exactly have given him trouble about coming on to him. Though knowing Mulder.... Really, even now he might decide it had all been Alex's idea. He could picture it now, Mulder standing over him disheveled and furious, gun in hand, knuckles bleeding. Shouting, Krycek, you little shit, you killed my father, you shot Scully's sister, you lay there and made me grab you.... Hold that thought, Alex. You did the right thing. Good thinking. Nice self-control. Solid hold over your baser instincts. Excellent work. You're glad you stopped him. That's right, Alex. You are. Unfulfilled desire was one thing-no fun, but he could handle it. Infinitely preferable to making love to Fox Mulder and seeing the revulsion and self-hatred in the man's eyes once the rush of lust receded. To say nothing of living with the knowledge that while he'd been making love to Fox Mulder, Fox Mulder had been rutting with a nicely shaped, convenient, and willing body. And what if Alex hadn't been able to control himself-if he'd said something, done something to hand Mulder the ultimate power over him? Alex had no way of knowing what his reaction to the experience would have been. He'd never made love before. He'd only had sex, and while he'd never had any problems retaining control during sex, no matter how frenzied the encounter, he had a nasty suspicion that it would be different with Fox. Wrong tense. He had a suspicion that it would have been different. He'd never find out because it wasn't going to happen. He knew better than to take incalculable risks. The man is good-looking, sure, but no one is that good-looking. And really, his nose is too long. And the shape. It's got a completely ridiculous shape, it's pudgy, for heaven's sake. A pudgy nose. And look at his jaw, it's too broad. And his mouth-his lower lip sticks out. He tried to spear a bite of pancake and discovered that he'd finished the stack without tasting a thing. Mulder flashed him a hunted look. "Stop looking at me like that," Alex snapped. "You're behaving as though I was Jack the Ripper. The only thing I did was tell you to stop." Mulder flushed and looked tortured. Dear God. He was gorgeous when he flushed. Alex felt his mouth go dry and the blood rush to his groin and hastily grabbed the sugar, adding a liberal dash to his coffee and stirring it with earnest attention. Coffee plantations, coffee production, exploitation of the workers.... There was a very long pause. Alex added some cream to his cup and swirled milky patterns in the coffee, concentrating fiercely. Merits of local coffee in two dozen countries. Poisons whose taste would be masked by the bitter tang-almost all, really, coffee was ideal provided the poison was stable enough to withstand the heat with the active component unharmed. And of course you had to make certain there would be no unwanted interactions with the caffeine- "I know," Mulder said quietly, his voice subdued. Bolstered by thoughts of coffee, Alex looked up almost casually. He managed to hold on to his detached assessment of the other man for over ten seconds-no mean achievement. Mulder stared at Alex uncertainly, huffed slightly, looked to the side and back to Alex. Frowning. Uncomfortable, confused, and unhappy, but determined. Alex knew what that look meant. Mulder had fought one of his bloody inner battles and lost. He had defeated himself into admitting that there was a truth to be hunted down in his own mind, and he had set out to bring it down, pin it to the wall, strip it naked, and turn it every which way in the harsh and brutal light of unrelenting intellect. He'd interrogated his truth exhaustively and marched it off to the holding cell. And now was the time to bring it to the attention of the world. Mulder was gearing up for coming out with an Uncomfortable Personal Truth That Had To Be Faced. "I'm sorry," Mulder said slowly and distinctly, looking straight at Alex. Unflinching. Alex's eyes widened in sheer astonishment. All remaining thoughts of coffee fled. "I had no right to do that," Mulder went on after a brief pause. Tortured, but gathering confidence. He was doing The Right Thing, and the knowledge gave him strength. "To... touch you without your consent." Alex shook his head, giving him a twisted smile. "Hey, Mulder, you've beaten the shit out of me without my consent and never given it a moment's thought." He brushed the remark aside with an irritated wave of the hand. "That's different. This was wrong. And-" His face was still and composed, but there was something wild, almost trapped in his eyes that Alex didn't like at all. "I didn't want to stop just because you asked me to. I considered going on in spite of what you said you wanted. Because of your physical reaction." Alex shot a quick glance around the breakfast room to make sure no one was sitting too close. Trust Mulder to burst out with the truth without regard for such mundane considerations as fitting surroundings and potential embarrassment. "Well, that's understandable, Mulder," he said slowly, feeling his way. This was almost surreal. He was actually sitting here comforting Mulder because Mulder had felt him up and couldn't handle it. Thanks a lot, Mulder. Must have been quite a traumatic experience. Mulder shook his head emphatically. "No. No, it's not understandable. It was-it would have been rape. I almost-" "Bullshit! Come on, snap out of it." He couldn't believe this conversation. He'd expected Mulder to be angry and disgusted, both at himself and at Alex. He'd been more than half afraid Mulder would decide to give Alex a good beating to flush some of the anger and desire and frustration out of his system. And, of course, to punish Alex for making Mulder want him. But this.... Even coming from Mulder, this was bizarre. "It would have been," Mulder insisted doggedly. "Physical arousal is no more than a reflex, an instinct, in many respects. It can-and often does-result even from stimulation perceived as unpleasant-it doesn't mean that it isn't rape-" "Mulder, it was just a case of crossed wires. It happens-the body goes one way and the mind goes the other. It's no big deal-at least not if you live through it, and that wasn't even a question in this case. It's got nothing to do with rape. I can tell the difference. And if it makes you feel better-if it had been even close, you'd be very cold and stiff now and I'd be three states away with a new name." An ugly note had crept into his voice and Alex stopped briefly to take a sip of coffee. His control was shot to hell-ever since he'd come back to himself on Fox Mulder's couch, he'd been slipping up like this constantly. This would never do. He had to get a hold of himself. "I'm not a victim, Mulder," he continued after a moment, his tone back to bland and conversational. "No one does that to me and survives." No one. Not even you. A thoughtful pause. A searching look. A slow nod. "I see." Mulder looked relieved. "I'm glad. Well, that's all right then." Mulder looked down at his by now no doubt very cold breakfast with a distracted frown, almost as though he couldn't imagine where the plate of scrambled eggs had come from all of a sudden and why he was poking around in it with a fork. With an air of brisk determination, he laid down the fork, waved the waitress over, and ordered a fresh plate of scrambled eggs, which he proceeded to put away with methodical precision, advancing from left to right. It was fascinating to watch-he'd even wipe down a cleared area of porcelain with a piece of toast before moving on to the next sector. Judging from the look of remote concentration on his face, he was thinking about the case. Amazing. Mulder really was a nutcase. If they need to sleep with someone in order to gain power over them, then how come the Lawrence guy that Riley ran into could make her do things? Do you think she's leaving something out of her story?" Mulder frowned at a traffic light that had the audacity to be red. "Something being that she slept with him? Get real, Krycek. He was obstructing justice." "Got a point," Alex admitted cheerfully. "So, do you think they can do minor influence without sex? Is sex specific to the servant binding? Or is sex only necessary with locals? Maybe because they're distant relatives and harder to control because of genetic similarity?" The light had turned green while he spoke and Mulder hit the accelerator. "Mulder! Look at the street when you drive!" Mulder glanced at the street once, distractedly, before returning his attention to Alex. "That's a very interesting theory-" "Mulder!" Extended honking caused Mulder to yell some very inventive curses at the drivers unfortunate enough to be sharing the road with him. Fortunately, the window was rolled up. Would have made interesting headlines. FBI agent fined for gross insult. Indecent gestures, too. Alex started laughing. When he was in no immediate danger, but under a lot of stress, he often found small things hysterically funny-it was a safe way of letting off some of the tension, he supposed. Certainly better than most of the methods he'd come across in others. And what with the aliens, the Consortium, and Mulder, Alex was wound tight as a spring. "What's so funny?" Mulder growled. He shook his head and tried to stifle the laughter, but he was still snorting when Mulder pulled into the deserted parking lot behind the municipal building. It seemed the mayor was the only one who liked to come in to work on Saturdays. Mulder stopped the motor and turned in his seat, facing Alex, his expression carefully neutral. Probably about to slam a fist in Alex's stomach. He'd better control himself before- Mulder's hand shot out and Alex stiffened, flinching away slightly. "Alex." The tone was cool, no-nonsense, impatient. Alex was so astonished at hearing his name from Mulder that he didn't move when the other man reached over to take his chin in a firm grip, regarded him thoughtfully for a second or so, and then leaned across the space between them to kiss him. He smelled of aftershave and soap and Mulder. His lips were soft, but determined, sliding firmly against Alex's. Alex turned his face away and managed to summon enough presence of mind for coherent speech. "Mulder-" Stupid mistake. Mulder's hand still held his chin; a firm pull, a quick swoop of the head, and suddenly Mulder's tongue was in Alex's mouth. Alex held very still for one stunned moment that stretched into eternity. Fox Mulder played with his tongue, stroked the roof of Alex's mouth, and drew back slightly to nibble at his lower lip, drawing it into his mouth. Oh God. I can't do this. Something snapped. With a low, dangerous growl, Alex surged forward, pushing a surprised Fox back into his seat. In a movement as smooth as though he'd been practicing for years, Alex twisted up and around, vaulting across the gearshift to straddle Fox. He didn't think about what he was doing; he didn't even notice that the way he was half kneeling on the seat with Fox, half crouching against the door on the driver's side should have pulled several muscles. He didn't care anymore why Fox was doing this. He wasn't even thinking coherently enough to wonder. Fox Mulder was pressed against him, a startled expression on his face. Fox Mulder readily opened his mouth to Alex. Fox Mulder's arms came around him in a crushing grip to pull him closer, squeezing the air from his lungs. He tasted very faintly of coffee and scrambled eggs and toast. His tongue twined around Alex's and Alex drew it into his mouth, sucked on it, bit down gently, released it. Did it again. Slanted his mouth over Fox's and melted into him, caressing him, tasting him, tongue stroking and teeth nipping.... A hand twined into the hair at the back of Alex's head and yanked him back firmly. Breathing heavily, Alex looked down to discover a small, smug smile on Fox's face. "Well, then," Fox said calmly. "Shall we go and talk to the mayor?" Christ, no, Alex, you stupid bastard, what have you done.... But there was still time to salvage the situation-Alex could still disguise his dangerous lapse as a calculated move, part of a convoluted power game. Make him angry. Embarrass him. Make him think he knows the answers and he won't ask the wrong questions. Alex leaned back and raked his gaze assessingly up and down Fox's body, lingering at his groin and looking back up with an oh-so-slight smirk. Fox reacted beautifully, eyes narrowing dangerously, face closing. Alex could hear his thoughts as clearly as though he'd shouted them out: 'You may have just had your tongue down my throat, you little rat-bastard, but how dare you presume on that?' "Whatever you want, Fox," Alex drawled, giving him a cool, mocking smile. "Just let me know." With an intense rush of relief, he saw the uncertainty flicker to life-almost but not quite concealed by the growing anger. Thank God for those expressive features. He widened the smile into an evil grin and reached out to ruffle Fox's hair. Fox was the one who flinched back now. "That was very promising, Mulder," he purred. "If you work on your technique a bit, you'll have a whole new weapon in your arsenal there. I've always found sex very useful. Ask me to give you some pointers one of these days." Anger flared in hazel eyes and Alex hurriedly scrambled back to the passenger's side and out of the car. Jesus. Talk about close calls. Cheldon and Alexander?" Mayor Lowborough leaned back in his green leather chair and looked up at the ceiling in concentration. "Cheldon and Alexander, Cheldon and Alexander...." Mulder glanced at Krycek. The bastard was coolly lounging in his own green leather chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, casually holding a snifter of brandy in his left hand. It looked as though he were chatting with Lowborough at some exclusive club. The bruise struck an off note, but then, to judge by the mayor's small, sympathetic wince and smile when they'd first come in, attorneys fresh from fist-fights dropped by his office every day. Not even the bandages on this particular attorney's wrists had seemed to strike the mayor as odd. Alex Krycek was lying again. Lying with every little gesture, every calm nod, every cultured smile that shouted well-bred polish. And Weimar's mayor was swallowing the lie hook, line, and sinker. Falling for the falsehood of New England aristocracy. Believing in an over-bred, bloodless young scion reeking of country club and old-boy network where there was nothing but a calculated performance given by a thug-a gun-wielding, ice-eyed assassin. A sliver of shock sliced through Mulder as it struck him once again that not half an hour earlier, he'd had this ice-eyed assassin's tongue down his throat. And not only had Mulder enjoyed every second, he'd even thought it had been his own idea. Right until he'd seen that delighted little glitter in Krycek's eyes-the one that said: Look, the Fox who thought he was so smart has run straight into my trap. Again. How many times was he going to fall for one of Krycek's twisted little ploys? He had no excuses for his credulousness anymore-he knew what Krycek was, had known for a long time. A liar. A traitor. A murderer. It wasn't as though Mulder didn't know he'd be royally screwed over whenever the bastard made one of his appearances. He always made so sure to guard every front-but somehow, he never suspected the direction the blow would actually be coming from. I've always found sex very useful.... The humiliating thing was that Krycek was right-Mulder had been trying to use sex as a lever, trying to gain an advantage, to put the other man in his place. Mulder hadn't been aware of it until Krycek had bested him at the game, but-yes. He'd been trying, and it wasn't his style at all. Krycek was pulling him down to his level. Damn the bastard. This was all his fault. Mulder knew Krycek was pulling a fast one on him somehow, but he couldn't figure out what it was. On the surface, Mulder seemed to be holding all the cards. Krycek was the one who'd been dumped on his couch as a gift, and on the power of that fact, Mulder held complete control over him. The threat of the aliens would bring Krycek to do almost anything-he'd seen it in his eyes. It would even force him to tell the truth. But Mulder had lost the brief insight he'd gained into the other man's thinking and couldn't figure out what the missing factor in the equation was. He was still groping in the dark where Krycek was concerned, and he shouldn't have been. Not when he now had so much to work with. He was overlooking something basic, something crucial. He needed to sit Krycek down and ask him some pointed questions. Unfortunately, just to make the chaos complete, Mulder's libido had chosen this moment to break loose with a vengeance, with the result that what little judgment he'd ever been able to lay claim to where Krycek was concerned now had to be considered additionally impaired. It was even affecting his calling-here he was, brooding about that wretched Krycek when he had an X-File to investigate. He shook himself mentally and sat up straighter, shooting Krycek a hostile glare and turning to the still ruminating mayor ensconced behind the huge walnut desk. "Mayor Lowborough-" Mulder began impatiently. Lowborough held up a commanding hand and swung his chair upright with a triumphant smile. "Ah yes! Cheldon and Alexander, founded by Gregory Cheldon and Morris Drake Alexander the Third." Krycek swung the brandy around gently in the glass, brought it to his lips, and took a languid sip. "The Second, actually," he said lazily. Was he actually toasting the mayor? What the hell did Krycek think this was, a cocktail party? "The third Morris Drake was the one who expanded into criminal law. I'm impressed, your honor-you have a fine memory. Are you perhaps acquainted with Sid Cheldon?" When Krycek had thrown out the name of his alias's law firm, Mulder had assumed he'd made something up on the spur of the moment. He'd even thought it an idiotic thing to do. Seemed he'd underestimated the deviousness of the rat once again. How many well-researched alternate identities did the man carry about with him? Mulder made a mental note to call up the Gunmen and have them run a check on Kevin Alexander. Should have done that much earlier. What kind of life would it be to live like that-wearing one alias after the other, shrugging in and out of identities like other people shrugged in and out of their clothes.... Damn. Bad metaphor. Change tracks, Mulder. Who was the real Krycek? What was the truth in and behind the disguises, what merely a lie? Because there was truth in every good disguise-it was only a question of knowing where to look. Mulder narrowed his eyes at the ambitious, well-schooled young scion next to him and vowed to find this particular truth. You're not getting away, not this time. You're mine now, whoever you are. You arrived on my sofa as a gift, I accepted, and that's that. Krycek chose that moment to glance at him with an odd expression in his eyes. Mulder smiled at him dangerously. That's right, you cold, murderous, pretty little bastard. Worry. For a moment, he thought he did see a flash of worry in the sea-green depths of the other's gaze, but then it was gone, replaced by the polite amusement of a stranger. "Special Agent Mulder, I believe you wanted to ask the mayor some questions?" "That's right." He fixed his attention on the mayor, who smiled genially and folded his hands on his desk. "Mayor Lowborough, you locked your son into his room to break the hold that Emma Lawrence had gained over him. How did you know this measure would be effective?" The smile slipped off the mayor's lips as quickly and completely as though Mulder had slapped him. Perhaps he had, by the older man's standards-there were some people who simply could not deal with his brand of directness. "I don't know what hold you are talking about. I caught him cavorting with an unfitting young woman and decided to put an end to the relationship." Mulder shook his head. "No, Your Honor, it's too late for smoke-screening. I'd much prefer to work hand in hand with the local police department and the populace of Weimar, and I am hoping for your willingness to cooperate, but if you decide to hinder my work, you're hurting yourself more than me. You won't make me go away. I know what you have here. I'm here to investigate the Lawrence witches and that's what I'll do." The mayor looked astounded, almost-but not quite-as though this were a completely new concept to him. "Special Agent Mulder-" Dahl had made it clear that native Weimarians were safe from the witches unless they slept with one or broke the agreement that existed between the town and the Lawrences... by talking about them with outsiders, for example. Lowborough's show of ignorance reflected this aspect of the pact as eloquently as the sheriff's earlier refusal to admit that there was anything noteworthy about the Lawrences. In the mayor's case, of course, there was a very effective lever that Mulder could use to make the man reconsider his priorities. "Emma Lawrence may not be willing to give up her quarry as easily as you seem to believe. Are you prepared to sacrifice your son to Weimar's conspiracy of silence?" For a long moment, Lowborough said nothing. Then he sighed and seemed to collapse in on himself. The practiced facade of good humor and benevolent bustle faded, leaving only a tired, worried man. "Of course not, Agent Mulder," he said quietly. None of the resonance of the practiced public speaker remained to conceal the bleakness in his voice. "The question is whether I will have any choice in the matter. The Lawrences are the real power in Weimar-Hal Warren and I cannot hope to stand against them. And where could we look for assistance?" A small, humorless smile twisted his lips. He gave Krycek a brief glance before raising an ironic eyebrow at Mulder. "Somehow, Agent Mulder, I have trouble believing your superiors will be quick to agree with your assessment of the nature of Weimar's problem." Mulder narrowed his eyes slightly. "Since I am the one presently in Weimar to handle the case, not my superiors, I fail to see why it should concern you, Mayor Lowborough. And the unusual circumstances of the case make it all the more advisable for you to assist me any way that you can-precisely because I do understand the true nature of the problem." It was clear the mayor was not much reassured by the fact that a single FBI agent had professed himself willing to believe in and deal with the plague of witches infesting his town. He looked down at the leather surface of his desk for a long moment and then snatched up the brandy he'd poured out for himself, drained it in one swallow, poured himself another, and downed that one every bit as quickly. As an afterthought, he swung the cut-glass decanter at his guests. "Gentlemen...?" "Thank you-it is excellent. Very mellow. Perhaps later," Krycek said. Mulder shot him a look. Krycek actually looked as though smarmy politeness were his natural state. "What do you think of all this, Mr. Alexander?" the mayor asked after a brief silence. He tried for a smile. "This must sound like complete nonsense to you...." Krycek regarded the glass he held, turning it thoughtfully. "I admit the notion of witches did catch me somewhat offguard when Agent Mulder first put it forward in my presence," he mused at last, meeting Lowborough's gaze and speaking slowly and gravely. "However, I must say that the theory does seem to fit the facts of the case better than any alternative explanation. Mayor Lowborough, the truth is that for all our science, we know next to nothing about the world we live in. I, for one, am not willing to discard a theory merely on the grounds that my knowledge of the world is comprehensive-which I know full well is simply not the case. I have therefore made it clear to Agent Mulder that I am prepared to render my full support to any action he considers necessary." He smiled wryly and quirked a conspiratorial eyebrow. "Although I dare say I will not be quite as open as I might be when I call the main office to inform them of my progress." For some reason, Mayor Lowborough found the weak crack funny. He gave a full-throated chuckle that no doubt carried excellently at receptions. "Be that as it may," Krycek went on in a brisk tone. "I believe it would not be a mistake on your part to support Agent Mulder in his work in Weimar. My impression is that he is quite competent." Quite competent! His impression was that he was quite competent? Mulder clenched his jaw shut and forced himself to look straight at the mayor. It would not make a good impression on the mayor if he slugged a seeming law-firm partner in the stomach while said seeming law-firm partner was sitting in front of Lowborough's desk sipping the mayor's brandy. There was a long pause while the mayor considered his options. Since the Lawrences would have to be aware that an infraction of the agreement had taken place before they took action against the transgressor, Lowborough would in all likelihood be perfectly safe even if he did talk about the witches with Mulder; still, the secrecy their treaty with the witches imposed on the Weimarians was obviously very deeply ingrained. At last, the mayor sighed. "For my son," he said, giving Mulder a tortured look. "I'll do it for my son." Apologizing for breaking the pact. Interesting-perhaps long observance had lent a mild ethical dimension to the terms of the treaty. The tax records that had arrived by special courier just after breakfast had yielded only one bit of pertinent information; Mulder decided it would make a good starting point. "The Lawrences' estate is officially the property of the town of Weimar. I take it they are not required to pay rent?" Lowborough drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly, managing an only slightly forced smile. "That is correct. It is... an agreement that has been in effect ever since the very beginnings of Weimar." "No member of the Lawrence family pays taxes for gainful employment or inherited wealth. Perhaps you could shed some light on how they support themselves?" It was plain to see that the subject discomfited the mayor, but he did not hesitate to answer. He had made his choice. "There is an agreement about that, as well. It is unofficial, but... it is understood by everyone that the town is to be billed for any charges a member of the Lawrence family incurs." He paused briefly before going on. "It might seem as though this system is wide open to abuse, but that is not the case. Only one store owner ever attempted to better his finances by charging the town for articles the Lawrences had not actually acquired, and after Celia Lawrence had a word with him, he tendered a very sincere public apology. His family has been donating considerable amounts of money to the community ever since." "Tell me about the Lawrences themselves," Mulder suggested. Lowborough ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed again. "I wish there were something useful to tell you, Agent Mulder.... We don't even know how many members of the family live on the estate now. Our only way of arriving at a number is counting those who come into town on occasion and allow themselves to be identified as Lawrences, but there may be any number that don't leave their land. To the best of my knowledge, however, there are four Lawrences around my age and five or six younger ones. There used to be at least five Lawrences in my father's generation, but none of them have been seen in town for decades, so we assume they-died." He hesitated over the word and gave a small, embarrassed laugh. With a quick smile at Krycek, he poured himself another drink. "Excuse my indulgence. I just caught myself wondering whether they ever died, but of course they must, or we would be knee-deep in the brood by now. Anyhow. Miranda Lawrence wasn't born here-she's Ferdinand's wife, or so I believe, and the mother of some of the younger ones. Theresa is the mother of the others, but she and Harry hardly ever come to Weimar. Of the younger ones, Gabriel and Emma are seen relatively often." With a small, nervous glance in the direction of the door, he went on, lowering his voice. "And Max. He has a very bad reputation. He's tried to provoke people to fights several times.... He succeeded once. Since then, people have known better, but he keeps trying." The silence stretched for several heartbeats. Then, Krycek leaned forward and held out his glass for a refill. Lowborough gave him an almost relieved smile and busied himself with the decanter. "I take it that people who attack a Lawrence lose their immunity?" Mulder asked. "Immunity? Ah, yes, I see-you could call it that. Yes, they do." "What happened?" "Max took away the man who tried to strike him. He-made him do some things first, nothing truly horrible, you understand, merely humiliating.... It was in a bar, you see, and Max told him to pour his beer on the floor and lick it up. That's the kind of joke that man enjoys." Grimly, Lowborough shook his head. "He's an infantile, uncontrolled delinquent. Unfortunately, he's also a Lawrence, or he would have been sent to a correctional institution long ago. He's the worst of the lot, though-the others are not truly...." He gave an uneasy laugh. "Well. Evil." "Have they ever killed anyone outright?" Mulder's voice was flat. "Not that I know of, but since no one knows what fate befalls their... uhm...." "Victims." "Yes, victims-of course there's no way to be certain." Lowborough ran his hand through his hair again. Mulder was beginning to think his wife and he deserved each other. "Well. There was another one, Clara, but she left years ago. She never seemed to be looking for people to take away, though she came into town quite a bit. I always thought she might have been trying to mingle." Mulder impaled him with a steady gaze. "Where did she go?" The mayor looked startled at the question. "Why, I have no idea. Is it important?" "It might be." Mulder considered for a moment. "Is there anyone who might know where she went? A friend? An acquaintance?" "She was a Lawrence, Agent Mulder. An unusually friendly Lawrence perhaps, but that didn't change what she was. She had no friends or acquaintances in Weimar." "The taxi driver," Krycek said. Lowborough and Mulder stared at him. He lifted his eyebrows. "She may have taken a taxi to the airport. Of course, she may also have teleported or taken her broomstick for all I know. But if she was trying to escape from her family and start a normal existence.... And a girl who has no friends and is in the process of leaving her family behind might-" "Yes!" Mulder said fiercely. "Good idea. Mayor, is there an empty office I can use for half an hour or so? I need to make several phone calls." "Certainly. I'll show you to my assistant's office down the hall." Mulder was so absorbed in the planning of his next move that he didn't notice the completely shell-shocked expression on Krycek's face until he brushed past him on his way to the door. If this was what it took to unsettle the man, he'd have to compliment him more often. Several phone calls later, he had the information he needed. Clara Lawrence had been heading for Harvard when she left Weimar-she'd wanted to study law. Which was interesting in itself. Mulder gave Skinner a call to inform him of the progress he'd made, down-playing the Lawrences' extraordinary powers and emphasizing their habit of kidnapping and terrorizing citizens. It seemed Mulder managed to sound fairly rational, since Skinner agreed to put someone to work on tracing Clara Lawrence. After considering briefly, Mulder called Scully on her cell phone to see how she was. "Mulder. Stop worrying. I am at a seminar with over three hundred doctors from all over the United States in attendance. What do you think is going to happen to me?" "I'm not worrying," he lied. "Just checking to see if you've found out why they wanted you out of the way. Let me know if you discover something." A drawn-out, exasperated silence. "Mulder. No one wanted me out of the way." "Yeah, right, happens all the time that you get sent to medical seminars without prior notice, and of course it's mere coincidence that I happen to be sent away on a case at the same time-a case that not only isn't properly submitted but doesn't fit the bill for what they've been trying to do to me for the last couple of months, namely to make me die of boredom-" "How are you doing?" "Fine." It came out rather more snappishly than he'd intended, and he softened his voice to a conciliatory tone when he went on. "Look, Scully, it's no big deal. I've handled missing person cases before." The silence was deafening. "Actually, I was asking whether you are making progress on the case," she said at last, her voice carefully neutral. "Oh." Mulder could have kicked himself. "Yeah, it's witches, Scully. I'll get back to you." He cut the connection quickly to prevent her from starting in on a lengthy explanation of why he needed his head examined. His cell phone beeped just as he reached the door to the mayor's office. Mulder allowed himself a small, irritated sigh when he flipped it open. Apparently Scully was not to be deterred from informing him that witches didn't exist. "Mulder," he said darkly. "I'm at Riley's house, I saw him go in, and I'm going after him," a frantic, completely un-Scullyish voice blurted into his ear. "I've been watching her house, a Lawrence went in and I'm going in after him. Agent Mulder-I thought I'd tell you-and now I'm going in." Mulder pushed open the door violently and gave Krycek a commanding wave, completely ignoring the startled mayor. "Dahl, stay where you are and keep watching the house. That's an order. I'm on my way, and until I get there you stay where you are, you don't go in, you don't do anything at all. Is that clear?" A second or two of breathing. Then, a click. Shit. Krycek was already past him, halfway down the corridor to the exit. "Agent Mulder, what-" "Later," he told the mayor, turning to jog after Krycek and punching in the number of the local police station while he ran. He was ordering the officer doing phone duty to get him the sheriff now when he reached the car. Krycek stood by the driver's side, raising an enquiring eyebrow and looking questioningly at the phone pressed to Mulder's ear. Mulder hesitated for only the briefest of moments before scooping the keys from his pocket and tossing them to the other man. By the time Alex screeched to a halt in front of Riley's house, Mulder was ready to jump from the rolling vehicle in his eagerness to get his first look at a genuine Weimar witch. He would have, if Alex had taken an instant longer to stop the car. "We should wait for back-up," Alex said, speaking purely rhetorically. Mulder was already out of the car and halfway across the street. Too late, it occurred to Alex that an accident on the way here could have made sure Mulder wouldn't arrive in time to do anything stupid, such as getting himself killed. As he hurried to catch up, Alex reflected that it was just as well he hadn't thought of it before. Getting between Mulder and his witches would not have been a survival-oriented move ("You bastard, you killed my father, you shot Scully's sister, you lay there and made me grab you, and now you made me miss my date with the witch!"). Given the choice, Alex preferred not to be beaten half to death and thrown to the aliens. Soundlessly, he followed Mulder through Riley's open front door into the deserted living room. "Stop! I told you to stop!" Dahl's voice, high with tension and fear. All but hysterical. Gun in hand, Mulder hugged the wall and went up the staircase. He hadn't acknowledged Alex's presence in any way after tossing him the keys. Hadn't even looked at him, let alone asked him to come along. Still, he was quite obviously expecting him to cover. Alex covered. The sensible, rational, regulation thing to do would have been to wait for the police to arrive. Of course Mulder never thought in a sensible, rational, let alone regulation kind of way. "I told you to stop right there! I mean it, you take one more step and I'll-" Apparently Dahl wasn't thinking that way either, whether he usually did or not. He was in love. Mulder moved into position next to the door to the left of the stairs, putting a hand on the handle and catching Alex's eye. Alex nodded. Mulder slammed the door open and went in low. Alex lunged after him, wheeling to cover the other side of the room. It seemed to be a combination office and work-out room. Dahl was holding a shooting stance in front of a rowing machine, threatening a tall young man standing near the window. Riley stood crowded against the rowing machine by her partner, frowning fiercely at his back. The presumable Lawrence witch turned in obvious surprise at Mulder's and Alex's sudden entrance. He wore jeans, jogging shoes, and a burgundy sweater and looked completely normal. Wavy blond hair, classically cut features, and a perfect build combined to make him unusually handsome, but beyond that, there was nothing remarkable about him. Fierce intensity burning in his eyes, Mulder stepped away from the wall, lowering his gun slightly but not relaxing his guard. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. Who are you and what are you doing in Deputy Riley's house?" The stranger gave Mulder an utterly incredulous look, apparently undecided whether to be amused or angry. Dahl didn't suffer from that particular problem. "Agent Mulder!" the policeman shouted in a parade-ground bellow all but deafening in these close confines. "This Lawrence has broken and entered my partner Deputy Riley's house and-illegally influenced her and refuses to let her go. She-" Without warning, Riley braced herself against the metal frame of the workout machine and shoved against Dahl's back with both hands. He lost his balance and stumbled forward, gun wavering. Alex found himself knocking Mulder into the wall. Nothing happened. Dahl caught himself almost immediately and backed away from both the blond man and Riley, ending up all but on top of Alex and Mulder. The room just wasn't large enough for something like this. If someone started shooting in here... Alex had to make sure Mulder stayed close to the door so he could drag him out quickly. "Do you mind?" Mulder's lowest, most dangerously calm voice said directly into Alex's ear. Alex stepped aside and Mulder pushed past, giving him a brief narrow glance before his attention gravitated back to the presumed witch. It seemed the Lawrence was enjoying himself. He waited for a beat to make sure every eye was on him and then turned to Riley, moving slowly and deliberately as he reached out a hand. Great-a show-off. "Come now, my dear. Let us go." Nothing remarkable in the voice, either-it was a pleasantly cultured, unexceptional baritone. The policewoman smiled and moved towards him. "No!" Dahl shouted. "Stop, Riley!" She ignored her partner and took the proffered hand, gazing admiringly at the blond stranger. If she'd had a choice, Deputy Riley wouldn't have been caught dead with such an expression on her face. The insipid look she was wearing was obviously the Lawrence's idea, not her own. Alex noticed that he was beginning to hyperventilate. Christ, not now! Breathe! Get a fucking grip! He flexed his fingers on the gun, concentrating on breathing deeply and evenly, and shot a glance at Mulder. Come on, Mulder, get on with it.... Mulder took another slow step closer to the Lawrence witch, who regarded him with a look of faintly surprised interest. It was the kind of look a cat might have given a mouse boldly walking up to it. Alex focused on the witch and breathed, deliberately relaxing in preparation for violence. Try it, you bastard. One wrong move and your witching days are over. "You can't control more than one person at a time, can you?" Mulder asked in a tone of fascinated discovery. "If you could, you would have suborned Dahl or me by now.... That means you're never going to get Riley out of here." "I'd like to see you try to stop me," the Lawrence said, handsome features tightening in irritation. "I begin to find this fuss somewhat tedious. Maureen is no longer your concern-if you must put on a display of hysterical screaming over it, at least wait until I'm gone." Mulder took a deep breath. Alex couldn't see his face from where he was standing, but the tensing of his shoulders and the way his head came back spoke volumes about the kind of thing he was likely to throw at the witch's head. The truth, of course. "You're Max, aren't you?" Alex blurted out. Stood to reason, with Mulder's luck. Any Lawrence he ran into was bound to be the known sadist. The Lawrence glanced at Alex and considered for a moment before turning to Riley. He flashed a dazzling grin at her and lifted her hand to his lips before letting it go. "Maureen, perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce your friends to me?" From one second to the next, his mood had shifted. He was enjoying himself again. Not good-he'd explode into violence with no warning. Alex had met his type before. Hell, there was another of the type standing right in front of him. Found another soulmate for you, Mulder. "Please permit me to introduce you to Gerrit Dahl, my partner, FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder, and attorney Kevin Alexander of Cheldon and Alexander," Deputy Riley said, directing what could only be termed a simper at the blond witch. "Everyone, meet Maximilian Harold Lawrence." Maximilian Harold Lawrence bowed deeply, sweeping his right arm out and around in front of his body in a flourish obviously meant to imitate a courtly gesture. In spite of his modern clothes, he carried it off rather well. "So-you're the agent everyone has been talking about." Max sauntered over to Mulder, inspected his face closely, and walked all the way around him to get the complete view. The gesture was unpleasantly reminiscent of a prospective buyer looking over a horse. Mulder stiffened, his grip on his gun tightening. "Everyone?" he asked quietly. The witch waved a negligent hand. "That's right-the whole town. The birds. The spirits. Whatever you'd like to believe. So, Agent Mulder, what exactly are your plans?" "I will find Margaret Ritter," Mulder said evenly. "I will ascertain no one is being held against their will by you or any member of your family-or if that does prove to be the case, I will take action against it. And I will prevent further abductions from taking place." "Really?" Max seemed amused. "That's a rather tall order, Fox.... Especially the last bit." Before Mulder could tell him not to call him Fox, the Lawrence turned to Alex. Alex breathed deeply and evenly and returned the regard wearing his best bland expression. "How interesting. An attorney who bursts through doors with an FBI agent. I do believe you have a certain talent-it looked just like it does in the films. Of course, I'm not really a judge. Maureen, my dear, what do you think?" Riley tore her adoring gaze from Max's face long enough to give Alex a cool stare. Her eyes raked over his stance carefully, missing nothing. "He's had training." "Of course I had training," Alex blustered, putting a note of affronted hauteur into his voice. "It's tradition. Ever since the first Kevin Alexander led the charge against the British troops at-" "What's this I hear, Agent Mulder-you're sharing a room with him? And fighting in public, too." Max looked back at Mulder over his shoulder and gave him a grin. "How sweet. I didn't know the FBI approved of these things." Mulder narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How did you hear of-" The Lawrence reached out a hand for Alex. Slowly. Deliberately. Alex would have shot him then and there if the sudden cold wash of dread hadn't held him immobile for a crucial split second. Don't touch me I'll kill you don't you dare- The wave of panic crested and broke quickly, foaming away to leave Alex free and breathing easily. Yes. Now, Alex. He took a deep, mercifully unforced lungful of air and eased his too-tight grip on Mulder's second gun, shifting subtly. "Don't," Mulder snapped, his voice as hard and cold as Alex had ever heard it. God, Mulder. Ask me to fly next.... But he knew that note of warning in Mulder's voice-it was the same note that was there when he was about to slam a rifle butt into someone's gut. The note that meant he'd really like to inflict serious damage and was looking for an excuse. Any excuse. Better let the witch live a bit longer.... Alex had almost gotten used to not being beaten up by Mulder. Alex forced himself to hold still as the witch put a finger beneath his chin and tilted it up. It was not easy. "Nice," Max said appreciatively. "Remarkable eyes." If the witch didn't leave him alone soon, Alex would start to panic. The memory of the alien was too fresh in his mind-he couldn't distance himself from his body, couldn't reach the calm detachment that he needed for this. It was too soon-the turmoil of helpless rage and abject terror was still raging in him, crushed down but not yet settled, ready to boil up again at the slightest provocation. And this was too close to what the alien had done. Alex knew that the Lawrence was capable of reaching inside him and tearing his body away, forcing him down and under and scrabbling through his mind, taking his thoughts away from him, reaching into his soul- No! No, Alex, you stupid bastard, don't think of that. You are in control. Breathe. You will not lose control. You will breathe. The Lawrence tugged Alex's chin to one side, a wicked grin beginning to spread over his face, dark eyes glinting with joyful malice. "And such spirit, too. Fairly spitting green fire. No wonder you have to beat him from time to time." No air. There was not enough air. Alex could feel himself slipping away, beginning the long, spiraling decent into sheer, mindless terror. Where the fuck is your control, Alex-come on, breathe-no it's too soon I can't not now not so soon- "Mulder," Alex said, forcing his voice to convey the warning while he fought to hold fast to the shreds of his fast disintegrating control. Mulder, I'm going to kill him if you don't get him away from me. And then Mulder was standing right next to the witch, the muzzle of his gun pressed to the Lawrence's temple. "I told you not to touch him," he snarled. "Get-away-NOW." "My, how forceful," the witch said lightly, amused. "He must be quite special. Ah well, some other time." The hand was pulled back and the bastard witch walked away. Alex closed his eyes briefly and tore them open again at the combined surge of vertigo and nausea. Okay now, come on, breathe, breathe and don't make more of a fool of yourself than you have already. Jesus, he barely touched you and you all but flipped. Breathe, you fucking idiot. "All right?" It took Alex a long moment to realize that Mulder was talking to him. "What?" he blurted. Mulder gave him a peculiar look. "Alex. Are you going to be all right?" "Sure," Alex said, taken aback. Mulder hesitated for a brief instant before nodding and turning to face the Lawrence once again. Back in the middle of the room, Max offered his arm to Riley, flashing a sunny smile at the other men. "Gentlemen, perhaps you'll excuse us now. I-" Dahl, who'd been suspiciously quiet, stepped in front of the open door and leveled his gun squarely at the Lawrence's chest. "She's staying." "Don't be ridiculous," Max said, irritation once more taking over. "Get out of my way." He walked towards the door with Riley on his arm, ignoring the man blocking his path completely. There was a muted click as Dahl pulled the trigger. Max reached out to push the policeman aside and Dahl moved away smoothly, flicking out his left wrist. Silver metal flashed into being; Riley gave a choked gasp as her partner drove the switchblade deep into her arm. Nice move-there was more to the kid than met the eye. In a sudden, convulsive movement, Riley jerked her hand from Max Lawrence's sleeve and began to back away, her expression passing through several intense emotions before locking into rage. "You bastard," she grated, her voice harsh. "You bastard!" "Riley-" Dahl followed and reached for her injured arm, apparently forgetting he was holding a gun in one hand and a bloodied knife in the other. "You," Max said in a disbelieving tone of voice. "How dare you!" "Lawrence," Mulder said firmly, moving towards the confusion. No one paid attention to him. "You have robbed me of mine-you have broken the treaty," the witch said, sounding amazed rather than angry. Dahl's entire body stiffened; then, within the space of a second, all tension drained from him. "Gerrit. What a silly name. I'll have to think of a better one." The Lawrence witch held out a hand to the young policeman, who dropped his gun and turned away from Riley to reveal a face as calm and serenely collected as that of a Tibetan mystic. It was a strangely unsettling sight-Mulder could carry off an expression like that, but Dahl wasn't the type for mystic serenity. Max turned slightly to reach for the knife Dahl was now holding out hilt first, providing Alex with the brief distraction he'd been waiting for. As he'd expected, the gun jammed-bothersome, but hardly a surprise. Alex hurled it at the witch's temple to put it to some use, releasing himself into a precise, practiced flow of motion and controlled violence in the same instant. The Lawrence reached up and plucked the gun from the air, his motions blurring in Alex's vision. No one should have been able to move like that. Shit-belay that action, Alex- Alex had already begun to abort his attack when an impossible shift in the center of his gravity made him lose his balance. He crashed inelegantly to the ground, landing on his butt, looking and feeling like a complete klutz. What the fuck- He'd been shoved. The fucking witch had shoved him. And now the bastard was laughing. "I commend you on your excellent taste, Agent Mulder. Perhaps I'll come back for him some time." Dahl turned and walked out briskly, apparently not even aware of Riley's angry shout. In the doorway, Max bowed and grinned. "It's been extremely entertaining. I hope to meet you all again." The witch slammed the door in Mulder's face as he charged, Riley at his heels. They both crashed into the wood as Mulder tugged at the handle to no avail. By the time Mulder had broken the door down, the Lawrence and his newest victim were nowhere to be seen. Part III worldsenough@gmx.net

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