Dead of Night 35

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Hubris

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The last place the Detective expected to find himself at the end of the week, after six exhaustive and fruitless nights of searching for any trace of Lee Falun, was in a dark, old-fashioned theater tucked into the east side of town.

The place was utterly silent, as if to exaggerate the implied creak of the black and rust-spotted stage-lights dangling precariously above them. The weak yellow house lights only exaggerated the smallness of the room and the scratched-up floor and walls, all of which had fallen victim to a chalky layer of matte black paint. A few rows of flimsy-looking theater chairs were pushed towards the back of the building as if in afterthought, leaving the rest of the wooden floor peeling where others had been ripped out.

The older man stood a fair distance away from the low stage, unable to lean on it despite his exhaustion; Veser was kneeling to his left, chalk clenched in his fist like an ice-pick as he dragged it across the black floor in ever-tightening patterns. Hanna waited nearby. Judging from the stricken expression on Hanna's round face, he wasn't too comfortable with the developing scene either, but the small zombie was also watching the back door with a fervency that was fully explained when the scratched metal monster swung inwards and in stepped a girl.

Not any girl, of course, but the girl the pair of investigators had vicariously turned into a werewolf a week previous, followed by another musically talented young woman they had saved from (relatively) certain death.

Despite the fact that he had left the asking to Hanna, the Detective would never say the small zombie had a way with words – only enthusiasm. His partner possessed a near-magical ability to make anything seem oddly compelling when shouted at high volume with gratuitous amounts of arm-waving. He was surprised that Hanna's gesturing had carried over the telephone (and sidestepped the high possibility of misplaced accusations), but there Toni Ipres was, her best friend and lead singer in tow.

The Detective found it a bit surprising that he almost couldn't believe the sight when he had already witnessed a golden-eyed Pooka surge through a grocery store and knock every last carrot off the shelves. Sometimes, he mused, humans and their inherent capabilities – those of forgiveness and faith – were every bit as astonishing as the supernatural. Although, judging from the blonde's expression, he was relatively certain a bribe sufficed for all that.

The young half-selkie, a knot on the floor, jerked around at the noise. His harrowed glare was probably no more than the product of sleeplessness and the cruel grate of rising anxiety; a week was a long time to hold a finger and go without news. Hanna jumped up as if bitten and loped forwards, then screeched to a comical halt a considerable length from the newcomers when they emerged into the light.

The leggy lead singer was glaring around the sketchy theater, arms crossed defensively over her fur-lined parka and scowl forming on her thin and over-glossed lips, but in front of her, Toni stood resplendent in the bits of fog that had followed her in. She wore a black skirt with a snippet of rainbow and a trim periwinkle blouse, both upstaged by the plume of a blue Mohawk and matching blue highlights that fell over her shoulders with the curls of her black hair. She had complimented all of this with blue nails and blue lips, and the vibrant dashes of color made her skin appear indescribably warm.

The new punky look made the Detective's eyes widen considerably, as did the confident cock of the popstar's hip underneath her blue guitar. And judging from the stricken expression on Hanna's face, the sight made his dead heart beat just once. When the small zombie found his voice, he was almost assuredly more helplessly in love with her than he was before.

"Wow. Toni," he sighed, patched knees knocking together. "You look … different."

"I thought it was time for a change," the popstar said firmly, with a playful quirk of her mouth. Then she looked down, as if still a little surprised to find herself in one piece, or looking so different. "Nothing like a near-death experience to make you a little less afraid of color."

The half-selkie's conspicuous stare implied that Veser found the change pleasing as well, but was also eternally more focused on the push of her very round ass in her skirt. Toni shot the teen a warning glance, but the fact that Veser didn't have the breath or the patience for even one offensive word or pick-up line before he went back to scribbling on the floor said volumes. Looking at his hunched back, Toni's face fell slightly, but she was distracted by her bandmate, who jabbed her low in the back and hissed something very intolerant-sounding at her. Toni visibly stiffened and, as the two young women proceeded to engage in a fierce snit-fit, Hanna retreated to wrangle something out of his rucksack with great fervor, then ran back toward the new werewolf, blue eyes dazzlingly bright.

"Speaking of all the, heh, changes lately – "

The small zombie stopped in front of Toni, then re-realized that he had asked her to bring someone with her, and that someone's expression had long ago hit the depths of 'endlessly sour and judgmental.' Hanna ran a hand over his green and stitched-up neck in response to the lead singer's suspicious stare, ducking his curly red head and hiding the eerie glow of his eyes. The blonde's building criticisms loomed like an axe, but as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, Toni's hand whipped out.

"They're in a band. Zombies are their gimmick, they helped me out of a really bad situation, we're helping them with a trial special effects run and that's all you need to know," she said in such a flat, no-nonsense tone that Jessica clamped her pink mouth shut only with the most visible of efforts, reduced to smoldering inside her fur-lined parka, and the theater was shockingly silent once again.

Perhaps it was just to shut her friend up, but it certainly sounded like a defense, and that made Hanna perk up. Buoyed and grateful, he took a deep breath, gulped and pressed on, taking a ratty red spiral notebook out from behind his back.

"I, uh, made this for you! Kind of a … how-to guide. About your new fur coat. How to… wash it and stuff. And wear it." Hanna proffered the flimsy thing with a nervous smile, gaze strictly locked on Toni. "I used one of my old journals, I hope that's okay."

Journal and instruction guide and implication hanging between them, Toni stared at Hanna with a blown-away expression. She clearly didn't know how to take the kindness even as she knew it was a kindness, if just from the zombie's manic grin. After glancing back at her friend, the new werewolf took it from his green hands, a little careful not to brush them and, under Hanna's fairly sparkling eyes, thumbed through the first few pages. All were matted with graphite tangles, edges of the pages warped from water abuse.

"Thank you, Hanna," she said, tone equal parts mechanical and unsure. She flipped through the next few pages, obviously expecting a halt to the scribbles. Her eyes widened when page forty flipped by, all grey, front and back. "This must have taken you all night!"

"Oh, it's okay. I don't sleep," Hanna eked out through his wide smile, obviously rocked to the tips of his checkered toes by Toni's gratefulness. When she looked at him, perturbed (and he was reminded once again that he wasn't of the normal breathing cast of her fans), the zombie's smile dropped a notch.

"Yeah, it's weird. I'd say I miss it but I don't remember what it's like. But I would've stayed up all night anyways to make it for you!"

"Well … thank you. Really," Toni said, voice finally warming along with her almond eyes. Hanna gneed quietly and muttered something that sounded like sure thing into his hand.

He looked back at his partner with a she likes it look, which the older man answered with an of course she likes it, but don't come across too strong and aren't you forgetting what we're here for? look, which was surprisingly simple considering how much information it entailed. Toni then proved that her knack for adaptation wasn't all limited to finding herself beaten and battered and locked in a strange man's closet: she shrugged off her guitar strap, propped the instrument carefully on her boot and spoke up before Hanna could draw breath.

"So what exactly did you need our help with?"

Immediately, the Detective's shoulders relaxed.

There was a readiness in Toni, a willingness to cope and move forward, that made the Detective feel particularly at ease with her. Confident in her, really – as he was learning to be with Conrad, despite the coroner's ritualistic moans and groans. They were building something, here.

It made him feel like their network was expanding, which (he wanted to believe) meant everyone could be a little bit safer and a little more well-connected in the odd night in which they had found themselves.

While the head of the Moonlighters was sent to set up the mics like a common stagehand, Hanna stepped in and explained not only the events of the past week but all of what he could of the pre-existing circumstances. Toni listened with admirable attention and tried not to show too much shock, but her pursed lips made the effort fairly obvious. The zombie, encouraged by her implied acceptance, revved up to an almost incomprehensible speed of information and enthusiastic Hanna-commentary, but his machine gun of words slowed considerably when it came to her part in their covert operation in an old theater: a summoning song in a séance.

It had been an excruciatingly long week, especially for a man who had to work during daylight hours.

On Saturday night, Hanna and the Detective returned from Conrad's morgue and spent long hours investigating the Falun house with Veser. The two felt more like a forensics team than anything else, considering the attention with which they checked every surface, on the alert for any runes or hoodoo markings near doorways – any that weren't put there by Veser, that is. They turned the house upside-down searching for any other sign of violence, forced entry or magical disruption. However, despite the permeating rotten egg smell of sulfur, which Hanna insisted was an unmistakable sign of demonic visitation, there was nothing to be found.

A horrible quiet had settled into the very wallpaper of the Falun house alongside the ghastly smell. The remote was cockeyed on the den table, a magazine spread over the arm of the couch. Clean dishes sat on the counter, arranged on a towel for drying, along with a single half-full glass that had a visible layer of dust on the motionless water. The fridge was undisturbed, food beginning to sour in containers. Struck still, Veser stared into the buzzing yellow-lit alcove as if the haphazard arrangement of the Tupperware were a puzzle, maybe looking for gaps or odd angles as he tried to figure out the last time anyone had reached into it for anything – down to the hour.

Days were too terrifying an increment to consider.

Lee's small bedroom was a held breath of cologne and rumpled bed-sheets, a pale dress-shirt flung over the side of the bathtub. His bedside lamp was still on. Veser looked through it all himself and closed up afterward, locking the door with a muttered word. Then he sent them all out of the dark house and onto the sleet-wet streets. Before Hanna could point out that the sea-witch had left the lamp on in Lee's room, his partner took him by the shoulder and, with that single beacon warming their backs, they began phase two.

In the city, they met with no more success. Veser's description of the older man who had approached him at the bar was nearly a dead end. They were on the look out for an older man, thin, with half-moon glasses and patchy white and black hair, but that was all they could do: look. Aside from checking every liquor store in the surrounding area (and dropping a quick text to Lamont), they simply had no leads.

This made for three very frustrating nights, worsened by the anxiety palpably sharpening in Veser as the city's empty sidewalks sprawled outward and the probability of finding his father sunk in and he became steadily more intractable and vulgar. The sleep-deprived teen nearly began a messy fist-fight with the bartender who had served him that night, though his screaming accusations halted the moment they physically dragged him outside into the rain. After his partner managed to get hold of the half-selkie's collar, Hanna hurried out after them, shivering in the monstrous shadow of his umbrella as he watched the stifled scuffle helplessly.

Fighting the folds of the teen's baggy clothing to get a good grip on him, the Detective almost found himself shocked by Veser's bony strength – or his own weakness after three days and nights without much sleep. Jerking away, nearly slipping and crashing to his knees as thunder boomed in the grey canopy of clouds, Veser roughly shoved the older man off of him and stalked down the sidewalk without looking back, hand fisted around the plasticky lump in his pocket. The freezing rain quickly darkened his shoulders and hood to black and the splash of his footsteps were lost in the low hiss. The Detective stood and gasped white into the air until the rain suddenly ceased bouncing off his shoulders; the shadow over his head was accompanied by a mop of curly red hair at his elbow. The sound of the rain striking the umbrella seemed strangely far-away as Veser faded to a silhouette or a stain on the murky gray canvas of the city.

Passing an overwhelmed look between themselves, the two investigators could do no more than follow him, fully aware of the same clock that tortured the half-selkie but unable to feel its every gear bite into their skin.

Lost on where to proceed with Lee's disappearance, they turned to earlier events. They searched the docks where Ieda's body had been found. During daylight hours, the Detective found her file in the station database. After he ducked into the evidence room to confirm the presence of a completely ordinary seal pelt, a quick call from Conrad confirmed that she had drowned, which was unnervingly absurd for a selkie. They sat Veser down among the toppled cans of his energy drinks, stilled his jerking knee and first made him sleep.

Then, five hours later, they made him recount everything his mother had said to him before her murder.

It was difficult to find the truth past the half-selkie's scorn: the teen scoffed and gave scathing summary statements, not seeming to realize that, though his mother was the cause of Lee's disappearance, she could also be the cure. Finally, they managed to piece together that Ieda had called her son to the rocky bay waterline five times in the month before she died, an incredibly high number considering her usual fare. Each time, she gave him more magic materials, shadowed words of wisdom and alluded to the need to prepare him 'before his time came.' More so, if she failed in her task, he would have to carry on for her.

Unfortunately, she died – was murdered and laid out on the docks – before she could tell him what that task was.

His mother had always been exceptionally superstitious, in his eyes, even for a witch – he insisted that she had been solidly off her rocker ever since the selkie community exiled her for bearing the child of a human – but the one concrete act that penetrated Veser's deep-seated disregard for the she-fae was the gifting of an exceptionally powerful spell book. It was a tome he had only expected to retrieve from her at her deathbed, and even then he thought would have to take it out of her cupboards himself. It held conjuring rites, powerful hexes and deadly spells that even Veser didn't think himself capable of, which was saying something daunting.

It only followed that the Detective was more than a little concerned when the next course of action, last resort or not, would be a summoning rite, the sources of which Veser was aggressively vague about.

Other than that, they absolutely had no other option if they wanted to find Lee and the elements seemed aligned: summoning the spirits of ancestors was an old practice with selkies and their witches alike, only performed through descendants of the dead. It seemed the already perilous plan of calling Ieda's spirit was missing only one very important factor.

"Only problem is, we need a chorus or something."

Hanna and his partner looked over into the living room, where Veser had been bent over a book for three hours. The half-selkie glanced at them and rubbed at his eyes, voice rough with exhaustion and information everyone should know.

"Song-crafting is big with selkies. They've even got a choir reserved for summonings … but we sure as hell aren't going to rope the Ag Toghairm into this, even forgetting the fact they wouldn't talk to me in the first place."

"Why?"

Detective left Hanna to do the asking; he was forcing down fuel, the way a man does when he doesn't know when he will get to eat again, or how much sleep the carbohydrates will have to stand in for. Veser pushed his own plate away and glared into the dark hallway, fingers clawed around the rim of his glass.

"Because of the way she died. If a death is violent, you're not allowed to summon the victim. The spirit is probably too angry. But she's my mother and I don't care how pissed she gets if I rattle her coffin: if she can give me this and help me find Lee, I'll leave flowers at her grave every fucking Sunday."

From the look on his face, it seemed to be a much deeper promise than just a gesture.

"We just need some sort of really good singer. And music. Don't guess you guys can play anything," Veser said hopelessly, looking over at the two investigators. "Besides, like, Tetris."

But Hanna's hand had stilled above his own rune book, tiny body suddenly compacted.

"I think I have an idea," he said after a ponderous moment, voice so squeezed and face suddenly so excited that the silence that followed was, if anything, twice as uncomfortable as before.

And so it occurred that they were in an abandoned theater waiting for the lead singers of the Moonlighters to set up and help them raise the soul of a murdered woman to question her about both her death and the location of her earthly consort. Again, in more ways than one, the Detective didn't quite believe it. Still, with little enough sleep, few things could trump the older man's singular work drive, even if cognition or concern for long-term consequences were worryingly absent by the seventy-two hour mark.

As Hanna convened with Veser over the candle-and-geometry particulars of the séance, the Detective mostly just looked at the half-selkie though sleep-drawn eyes. The older man was excruciatingly tired, but it was a genuine question whether he would have gotten more rest without a teenager leading them down every alley until all hours of the morning. Much like the way he sought out night cases with near-abusive energy in the week beforehand, he was almost grateful for the chance to avoid turning in to his stale sheets and instead fill his dark hours with something worthwhile.

Even though it had been a week since his last dream – nightmare – he could feel her still.

Like a specter, the woman with the silver hair waited at the edges of his mind and his dreams. She was on every street corner, sitting in every crowded café of his dreamscape, waiting for trains or a movie or a stoplight. Or him. It was as if she were looking for a way in, almost, or repeating some action that had meaning in another life.

In a way, Veser's eyes were similar to hers. Too large. Too green. Something scratched at the back of his mind, just seconds behind his sluggishly rising nerves, as Veser drew himself deeper and deeper into his chalk circle.

"So …"

The Detective looked over, faintly surprised to see Toni Ipres to his left, deftly twisting the cord to her electric guitar. She parted her eyes from the shiny curve of it to glance up at him – very up, as she was barely taller than Hanna and that was his meter-stick for shortness – and, when his met hers, her hand hid behind her ear in a feminine motion, taking a stray strand of bright blue with it.

"I'm surprised I remember anything from last week, but I have to ask. Is it, ah, Beauford Tyler or Tyler Beauford?" she asked, glancing down and smiling. The Detective frowned into the claustrophobic hall, trying to remember the context, then did. Tyler and Beauford: the two names Hanna had managed to drop before she left their apartment.

"Neither."

There was no answer from Toni, only distant clangs and a stifled curse as the two mics were arranged.

The Detective looked down absently, then blinked to see her half-dismayed expression, edging on abashed. With the slowness deserved of someone both extremely sleep deprived and fairly unused to interacting socially, he supposed his curtness might have seemed a little out-of-turn to one who was not aware of their situation. He made a point to look down at her and smile, albeit thinly.

"I apologize, Miss Ipres. I am not any combination of Tyler or Beauford. If you want to know the truth, my name is of a similar nature to Hanna's cause of death. Something we are searching for, yet do not know the correct method to find."

"You don't have a name?" she asked, perplexed, then cocked her head when the Detective inclined his own. "What a thing to lose. So what do I call you?"

"As I tell Hanna, whatever you would like," he said simply. Then, after a moment, he put up a hand. "Just … no dog-names."

"Dog names?"

The Detective's expression became so pathetically put-upon that words weren't really necessary, but he took a small breath and supplied them anyways.

"Hanna has worked his way through Snoopy, Clifford, Lassie, Wishbone, both Scooby and Scrappy Doo, Fido, Garfield and several others. Ringo, admittedly, was in a dire situation, so I can't blame him for not thinking it out."

"I'm pretty positive Garfield is a cat." Toni snickered, then looked up at him wryly and said with a confident swing of her hip,  "And what's wrong with dog names?"

"I'm glad to see you're adapting, Miss Ipres," the Detective said kindly, returning the look with a warmth of sincerity as rare as the handsome smile that accompanied it. The younger woman quickly grinned down at her boots and tucked her hair behind her ear again, curling around her guitar like a flower.

No matter how out-of-practice the Detective was with women, he knew enough about that half-cringing, sweet reaction to tense up a little in a far-off part of his brain. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed the simple interaction, if just for a release from the tension and the responsibility of the previous week, but his very next thought was to put a little conscientious distance between him and Hanna's very young crush. In no way did he want to hurt the zombie's feelings, especially considering his partner's current level of excitement – and the forthcoming possibility of disaster that would, of course, fall to them if anything went wrong with the spell.

The older man cleared his throat and excused himself, and Hanna quickly replaced his spot on the scuffed stage, yabbering last-minute details to Toni, like parts she shouldn't mess up on (which was surely helpful and not at all nerve-wracking) or pronunciations which would send the whole building down around their ears if she flubbed them, haha no really. To their luck, Toni surprised them yet again with an uncommon familiarity with Latin and a quick discussion of meter was all that it took to select a proper song to impose the spell over.

When everything was in place and the two partners had taken what had suddenly become positions behind Veser and his spell-circle, the Detective's nerves returned like a hard chill.

Like many, he had never witnessed a summoning and didn't know what to expect. What merited the most anxiety, however, was the fact that Veser self-admittedly was not supposed to be doing this, which only compounded the sense of solemnity and danger aroused by the seven candles and peeling spell-book and kneeling teen at their feet.

Any sense of normality and earthly space in the blacked-out theater lasted only as long as it took for Toni to nervously rock to the tips of her toes in the silence, and, looking to Jessica, strum a chord. The first deep notes of the song vibrated the dark space and Hanna's knees knocked together. He gneed into his collar, earning a dubious-yet-fond look from his partner, knowing what the others didn't. No matter the circumstances, Hanna obviously wasn't wasting an opportunity to fan-boy about (a fraction of) the Moonlighters making a private performance of his favorite song.

The song was strong and one the Detective remembered from the concert, though distorted by the popstar's rhythmic, archaic-sounding chant and her partner's wordless siren vocalizations. Instantly, the hair rose on the back of his neck: though the burr produced by the old mics could have intruded onto the reality of the spell, instead it gave the energy an audible, humming presence and another quantum wavelength to absorb into its otherworldly swell.

Like stirred pebbles, he heard Veser's raspy murmur underneath the electric melody and looked down, finding the sea-witch bent over his spellbook, his every move watched by Hanna.

"Ta metra ke'tarra'h, te metra ke ki'rah, tes metras ke fo's, de ga tes ska'ado'h o'tro me do'otro brob'osh de fysc. Hustr'oh ke'petro, i'ks de na ke'p …"

One pale hand traced the spidery language of the book, the other lighting the chalk runes in tightening circles. Veser's form quickly became little more than a dark cut-out as the magic gathered, alive and pulsing. The rite quickened and slowed like a secret breath: the rising peaks of the spell crashed against the over-arcing melody until they merged, pulled by a larger tide, and the loudness of the power struck something inside the Detective's hollow chest. Hanna felt it in the same moment and his blue eyes seemed to flare, but the twin blue will-o'-the-wisps were violently overpowered by a flash of light from the circle that filled the space under the high cieling with silvery smoke.

"— des e'smp'a mosh'da ke'hae! Et ke'petro hi'sa'khe se'mp de mai!"

The Detective didn't know whether he made a sound when he recoiled, only that he was still on his feet when the white light coalesced into a column, which held as much space and weight as a reverse black hole. Like so often with magic, he lost all track of his earthly body as the light began to flow into the form of a slender woman. Fiber-optic features emerged from the swath of white as the rite widened the portal: her eyes were shut, washed-out silver hair drifting with eerie slowness around her shoulders, delicate nose and mouth hauntingly familiar to the older man.

Muscles tensed a thousand miles away, the Detective watched with rising emotion as Veser's mother opened her too large, too green eyes and abruptly doubled over, a dark form snaking around her neck and yanking her out of the circle and into a bolt of shadow and smoke.

In a split-second, they were released from the spell. Like a breath of shockingly cold air after breaking the surface, the Detective's senses told him that Toni's voice had taken on an echoing, confident quality almost majestic in the old, cramped theater – one that was abruptly cut off when a depthless, shadowy distortion arced towards the stage and struck Toni Ipres in the chest, slamming her backwards.

She staggered, but didn't fall. At his feet, he heard Veser's rough exclamation as if through a fog. All the Detective could see was Toni doubled-over, perfectly still, face hidden by a curtain of blue and black hair. His urge to go to her was made impossible by the sheer weight of his body, so he watched blankly as the popstar straightened with a shiver of the air around her and turned a perversely serene face to the weak house lights. When she opened her eyes, they were blotted out by a bright acidic blue glow.

It happened in a matter of seconds, then time snapped back to normal with a tangible and terrifying sensation.

Toni dropped her guitar and it slammed down on the old black floorboards, making an earsplitting squeal. Jessica overturned her mic as she scrambled over to her bandmate, taking hold of Toni's shoulders with panicky strength and shaking her small form with an escalating Toni, Toni, hon, oh Christ, talk to me, please. Without turning, Toni raised her hand between them and flung her bandmate away with a sweep of her arm and the oily air around it. Flying through the air like a rag doll, Jessica hit an old sound tower with a hollow boom, falling into a nest of wires. At the front of the stage, Toni's pristinely blank face suddenly crinkled and twisted, anger shaping her glowing eyes and full blue mouth.

As the pressure on the stage rocketed upwards, drawn to the void around her, the possessed young women turned her head up and screamed in pure rage, hands clawed as dense, dark power daggered out of her.

"Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no!"

The voice, close and real and sharp, made the Detective look over. Hanna was nearly doubled in a crushing panic, hands to his curly hair. As the older man watched almost uncomprehendingly, the small zombie turned on Veser, blue eyes painfully bright.

"You didn't tell me there had to be a medium!"

"Shit, she's loosed the chains." Veser hissed it so softly that it almost disappeared into the dangerously rising buzz eating up the air around him. Before anybody could question, the sea-witch slammed his fist to the floor, sending sizzling herbs scattering from their bowl across the dead white chalk runes. "She's loosed the chains that bound her, dumb-ass! She wasn't supposed to possess anybody, that wasn't in the spell! I don't even know how she broke out, I followed every – "

The knotted-up sea-witch stared at the scribbles underneath his hand, pushing his fingers across the rows with a stricken speed, then roared what sounded like a name and began to curse in the same language as the spell, slamming the book shut. That sound snapped the Detective out of whatever fog remained and a quick glance back at the stage validated the practice of not summoning angry spirits who weren't ready to leave the earth yet: they regularly took back what they wanted most, a body. Toni stood at the front of the stage, heaving in air and power alike as the instruments around her rattled alarmingly.

"It makes sense though, she sang the song and she's a girl. Fresh out of limbo, you'd go towards the most familiar form," Hanna murmured, then nodded with a steely look in his blue eyes. "I'll siphon her off."

"Hanna, is that safe?" his partner called to the zombie's back as the small dead boy loped across the theater and latched onto the lip of the stage with his skinny green arms.

"It's Toni Ipres!" he shouted as he heaved himself up, as if that explained everything.

Once more robbed of the ability to help, the zombie's partner watched intently as Hanna scrambled up and took the first few steps towards the vibrating young woman with care, then appeared to swallow and bravely strode his way into the oily distortion surrounding her, shoulders squared. The possessed young woman took no notice as Hanna drew even with her, fury-hot eyes wide and blank as her chest rose and fell with a dangerous rhythm. Reaching up, the zombie took Toni's face in both of his hands, only tightening the hold when she roused from her paralysis and tried to force him away with the flat of her hand.

The small zombie muttered something – the Detective could see his lips moving – and before Ieda's tortured spirit could surge up and use Toni's arms to fling him away, Hanna pushed one hand to her heart and both of them jerked in place. Something rippled the air between them: a river violently rerouted through Hanna's stiff arm and the link between them. After another muffled jerk of their bodies, Toni suddenly went limp, almond eyes rolling up as she peeled away from Hanna and hit the floor, but Hanna stayed frozen, oversized green hands rigidly cupped around air.

"Hanna?" the Detective grit out anxiously after no more than a moment, hand already extended towards his partner. A movement on the stage made him turn sharply on his heel, but it was Veser, who had used the distraction far more productively than he had. Expression equal parts dark and determined, the teen moved from the fallen blonde's side to Toni's, ducking under Hanna's rigid form to scoop her into his arms and stumble down the stairs with her against his chest.

"Blondie's out cold, but there's no blood. I put a charm on her to keep her down, and Fifi here's still breathing," he pushed out when he was within ear-shot, face splotchy with the effort. The half-selkie fell to his knees next to the older man with a stifled grunt, but the bang of knees on wood and the scrape of cloth was the only sound in the small theater: the eerie photograph quality of the stage continued, candles burning serenely on the floor. A feeling of dread vibrated its way up his closed throat, too similar to the feeling after he stepped into the djinn's circle; the Detective turned one eye towards Veser, who was checking Toni's pulse.

"What about Hanna?" he asked, tense and short. "Is he still in there?"

"Wait and see," Veser said grimly, easing the unconscious young woman off of his legs. "Possession is like a maze. He's probably running from her inside his own mind. My mom was a powerful as fuck sea-witch, but she's been dead for a while and that makes ghosts a little crazy and a little sloppy, so he might be able to beat her. Can't believe he'd willingly do that."

There was a ghost of amazement in his voice, as if he just then realized how insane — or dedicated, or generous, or unconditionally kind — Hanna was.

So the Detective waited. It was not his nature, and it ground painfully against both the things he wanted to do and the infuriating barrier of the unknown that had kept him from running to Hanna in the first place – a barrier that proved more and more powerfully infuriating as time went on and yet more chalk lines were drawn that he couldn't pass. He couldn't ask Veser if he could do anything more, because it was clear that this battle was Hanna's, but even knowing that, he couldn't quite get enough air. He watched and as he did so, his hands clenched at his sides, gloves squeaking, empty tin-can chest compacting as the minutes passed and pressed.

Finally, something happened. It began with a twitch of the zombie's fingers, then his arms dropped to his sides. Pressure thickened the electric air again and, sharply, Hanna's chin jerked up, blue eyes wide and devoid of iris.

His mouth fell open: the same watery blue glow emanated from his gaping throat, a frozen scream.

"Why am I …? W-what's … going on?"

Toni's hushed whisper drifted up like a weak thread of smoke; Veser spared the waking werewolf no more than a glance before gaping at the small zombie on the stage.

"Oh shit. That's not good," the sea-witch muttered to her or himself as his arm slid around her shoulders, a gesture both instinctive and protective. He looked up, locked eyes with the Detective. "She's in the pilot seat."

The Detective watched as Hanna's blank blue eyes made a slow sweep of the room, then focused on him and stopped cold. Under that stare, his skin went icy. Hanna took one step, then another, slow and ponderous as the presence filled out his limbs and gave him an unnatural weight. The zombie looked to the side and, machine-like, his arm extended and his hand clamped down on the remaining mic-stand.

Another few steps took him off the edge of the stage. He dropped and hit the theater floor on his hands and knees, then rose with the mic-stand held close to his side, like a weapon, his other hand clawed. Blazing blue gaze never parting from the older man, Hanna hefted the pole into both hands and began to stride with menacing, quickening steps toward his partner.

"Murderer," the thing inside Hanna hissed, twisting the dead boy's voice into something terrifying and hollow.

A twanging noise from the cord halted him, but only for a moment: he tightened his grip on the metal rod and snapped the trailing cord with no effort, skinny green arms tightening with a strength not their own. His mouth was warped in a grimace, radiant blue blotting out the fierce line of his bared teeth.

"I begged you not to."

"Hanna?" the Detective said faintly, letting his feet carry him to the right, away from the crouched tangle of Veser and Toni. The small zombie swerved to follow him, raising the pole high and closing the distance between them at a flat run. "Hanna, listen to me. No, Hanna, please —"

Hanna screamed, high and raw, and swung the stand at him with a force that made the older man cry out. Something cracked in his forearm when he thrust it up to block the blow at the last minute, but it forced him to the ground, bones ringing painfully. He looked up to see Hanna silhouetted above him, the stand raised high above his head, rage twisting his features and narrowing his blank eyes. The Detective rolled aside at the last minute, gasping as the base of the stand slammed into the old wood and splintered the space where his head had rested a second previous.

"Ieda, I didn't kill you!" he bellowed, scrambling to the side and slipping on the coating of dust and chalk, sending candles rolling. Hanna's only reply was another sound of rage as he ripped the stand out of the floorboards and swung it again.

"I begged you not to. I told you what would happen!"

"Veser!" the Detective called out sharply as he stumbled away, groping along the flimsy theater chairs.

"I need to get to the book," came the shouted reply from the other end of the building. The Detective didn't have time to look over: he only looked at the chalk on his hands and then to where the half-selkie had thrown the tome, now dangerously close to scattered candles. He bolted towards it, boots slamming on the wooden floor, and heaved the massive leather-bound spell book into his arms, nearly turning directly into another blow. He spun on his heel and ducked around the possessed zombie, running only close enough to Veser and Toni to fling the book towards them, the dust carrying it the rest of the way along the floor. The sea-witch's hand slapped down on the spell-book and the two men locked eyes as the air began to prickle at their skin and Hanna's voice rose behind them in roar of frustration.

"This isn't Hanna," the Detective rasped out, bent in half and gasping for air.

It was a shout from his gut, a statement to confirm what he should know: but Veser looked at him like he didn't know anymore, and he had barely turned when the next swipe of the stand made him roll and curse. He crashed into a chair, head spinning and back stinging cruelly were one of the arm rests had struck his spine. He felt the blood wet his shirt before he actually felt the place an exposed screw had ripped into his forearm, or the sharp pain that came with it.

Opening his eyes, the Detective barely managed to twist onto his back and grab the mic-stand as it slammed into his open palms, grunting as pain jabbed up his arm like a shard of bone, then flipped it over in a massive feat of strength. Using the stand, he forced the possessed zombie to the ground and tore Hanna's fingers away so he could fling the weapon behind them, where it clanged against the floor.

Immediately, the zombie's hand fastened on his neck and he caught it and forced it down with a singular concentration, gasping for air. The tangible prickle of the dead woman's pure fury only fed the fire in his partner's empty eyes as the Detective kneeled above him, keeping him pinned with the strength and reluctance of one who knew what he was dealing with – and knew what that thing was residing in.

"Let him go." He had scarcely heard his own voice so hard and thin. "I will count to three."

"How could you do it?" the dead boy demanded raspily, pushing against his hands as the Detective watched in deep-seated horror, blood seeping under his grip as his arm bled and bled. Hanna arched against the wood, his next words drawn into another scream. "I trusted you!"

A convulsion claimed the older man's features, acidic shock and helpless sadness, then suddenly his expression hardened and he forced Hanna down to the ground anew, teeth clenched.

"Listen to me! Let him go!"

The anger was real, but there was something different about his voice. It sounded lighter and more echoey, electrified and distanced by the matching watery blue glow that had begun to stream from the older man's open mouth. The Detective's broad shoulders went rigid, his hands clenching around Hanna's thin green wrists with new, different strength.

"Let the boy go, Ieda! You're not helping anyone this way!"

Hanna snarled up at him then went taut again, glowing mouth open. His eyes didn't change, but he went limp. The small zombie looked up at his partner with a rage and a sorrow and a frustration too large to be expressed in words.

After matching that stare with his own, calming or containing or simply acknowledging the pain in front of him, the Detective carefully climbed off of his partner and raised him to his feet, where Hanna stood to the side defensively, arms to his sides. The body language was entirely not Hanna, but stiff and feminine, and a blue aura coalesced around his skinny limbs. Within moments, a woman's image formed over him, cold, beautiful face twisted in dark rage.

"Mom?"

The whisper came from their periphery, where Veser kneeled with the open book. He stared upwards as though he didn't believe it, but the image only became more detailed, every silver hair visible in the weak, sourceless light. It was the same woman from the circle: Ieda, drawn from her cage inside a dead boy's body, floating on his surface like a shimmering oil spill.

The sea-witch opened his mouth to speak, but the glow spread gently to the zombie's partner, flowing up over his chest. A pale man formed over the Detective, the older man's dark coloration and sharp features giving way to blond hair and a weak mouth. Veser stared as the features flickered in and out and accumulated and, finally, settled.

"Lee?"

Veser's whisper cut through the silence of the theater, shaky and weak.

"Hey, Sharkbait," came the soft voice from a thousand miles away, the specter's lips moving just a moment behind the actual words. The smile, pale and helpless, was just as distant.

"Lee, why're …" The teen tried to get to his feet, stumbling slightly. His hand was pressed tightly to his pocket, limbs locked and green eyes wide. "Your finger."

Lee shook his head gently, as though the finger were the least of his worries – like a puppet, the Detective's head shook at exactly the same angle, black eyes filled with the same emotion – then looked at his son.

"I'm so sorry, Ves. I wanted to listen to you."

There was a scratch, like an old tape skipping. Lee tiredly closed his eyes.

"You knew all along, and I went anyways. I couldn't stop myself. Hope you understand." A pause, both too long and too short. "They did horrible things to me."

The Detective's chest whitened like plasma had been poured over his shirt and there was a sudden flash, chilly as a nightmare, of a bare white chest with a gaping black hole right where the heart was supposed to be. It was a black so slick and complete that it had to have been red – torn, pulsing, agonized red.

Veser made a horrified, dying sound and jerked back, green eyes going wide but the image was already gone, and Lee's gentle face was still staring at him, blue eyes both blank and depthless. Veser's breath began to come high and fast, a count-down of slipping sanity.

"Wh-where are you?" he demanded, not pausing as he straightened himself with an artificial strength both brittle and manic, hands visibly shaking. "Where the fuck are you?"

"With your mother," the specter said softly, putting an arm around the shadowy figure of the woman; the Detective's bloody arm mirrored the motion, slipping around Hanna's tiny shoulders. "But you have to stop them."

"Stop them?" Veser repeated, voice cracking. He took a terrified step towards them, fixated on the watery light the two Detectives emitted. "Who's them?"

But Lee acted as if he couldn't hear him. His long white face grew even more worried as he flickered, visibly straining forward as he tried to speak through the mist barrier that was forming between them. His anguish, loose and deep like water, flowed around them, tightening the darkness into a net.

"The docks. I heard something about the new moon, they're doing something at the docks." His eyes began to flicker back and forth, as if losing sight of something little by little. "This is big. Bigger than we ever thought. Everything is connected, and your mother was only the beginning."

"What the hell are you talking about, man?"

It was a whisper, involuntary and perfunctory: a brainstem reaction.

"Someone else might die, Ves. You have to save them."

That phrase — someone else might die — hit Veser like a black flood, making him see the ghostly, watery image in front of him with more than just his eyes. Struck, the teen shook his head, shook it faster and harder and finally let out one horrified, sharp sob, digging his fingers into his silver hair as the image of his father and his mother began to fade into the black.

Lee smiled at him.

"I love you, Sharkbait."

"Lee!" Veser screamed, unable even to part his hands from his caving chest or reach out for him. "Lee, no!"

Lee looked down at the woman in his arms and kissed her forehead — the Detective pressed his lips to the fringe of Hanna's red curls, hand cupping his shoulder — and the light dribbled away from Hanna's small form like dew running down a window, leaving him a shadowy figure who crumpled in his partner's arms, eyes closed. The light left the Detective with the same gentleness, but he stayed on his feet, suddenly clamping his arms around the zombie and crushing him close to his chest, eyes wide and wild and terrified and his own once again. Cheeks wet.

The theater was empty, terrifyingly empty, and all eyes fell on Veser. For a moment, the only audible thing was his breath. It moved in and out, wearing away something more – something red and vulnerable – each time.

"God damnit! God … damnit, Lee!" he screamed roughly, taking a broken seat and chucking it to the side with all the strength in his body. He struck his way down the row of seats in frenzied jerks of his arms and knees, kicking over the rest of the candles and stumbling and finally falling, knocking over the bowl of seawater. It rushed over the ruined remnants of the chalk circle, smothering the candles in an audible hiss.

Veser crumpled to his knees on the wet ground, tears streaming down his face as he sucked in air in painful, wet jolts, crushing his face into his hands. He shivered and keened and screamed hoarsely and cried and pushed into Toni's warm chest when she fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around him, tucking his head under her chin and holding him until the half-selkie went still and silent.

Smoke twisted up from the fallen candles, spent, and Hanna didn't open his eyes.