SUMMARY: Doyle's lost in the land of the dead, and Angel Investigations gets a new case.
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: Doyle/Cordelia
DISCLAIMER: "Angel" and all of its characters are actually the property of
Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, the WB, 20th, and Sandollar/Kuzui,
Greenwolf and Mutant Enemy. No infringement is intended.
FEEDBACK: Please don't feed the animals. Please do feed the ego.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This has sorta become a series. "Apparitions" is the first
part. There will be more at some point. Yay. Eternal thanks to Chelle and
Anez for the excellent and ego-inflating beta-reading.

PART 1

The Irishman paused, shivered, and exhaled a puff of misted breath into the cold, still air. He was no longer Irish, nor was he a man, and in truth he had no breath or lungs to breathe. But he knew none of that; he only knew that the icy breeze had invaded every fiber of his being, that the river which flowed beside him seemed to lead to nowhere, and that he hadn't laid eyes on a single being aside from himself in the hours that he had wandered at the water's banks.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and the biting air made his eyes water. His teeth clashed violently together, chattering, but the sound was muffled by the heavy gray mist that blanketed the riverbank, and it didn't carry very far. His arms were wrapped across his chest and his hands were seeking warmth but finding none in the space between bicep and body. His feet had long since become numb, and it caused him to stumble over whatever small obstacles presented themselves.

He stumbled over the large ones, too, and finally lost his footing when a body suddenly became visible in the mist; the Irishman tripped over an outstretched foot and went sprawling in the sharp, dew-coated grass.

The body, which turned out to be an old man seated on a sizeable stone, said something in a language that didn't immediately register in the Irishman's mind. But long-forgotten memories surfaced, and the English translation spilled through his brain like cold water.

"Watch where you're stepping, Francis," the old man said. The language was Irish, though somewhat antiquated. Doyle translated quickly in his head, trying to keep his mind from straying to his days as a schoolboy, learning the language, and even better days when he'd imparted that knowledge to his own pupils. It was hard to keep the memories at bay, for some reason, but he concentrated on formulating his own reply, and the language returned to him.

"I'm sorry," Doyle replied in halting Gaelic, wincing at the rusty unused sound that inflected the language when it came from his mouth. "I didn't see you there."

The old man snorted, his gnarled fingers picking idly at a blade of grass between his fingers. "There's much you don't see, boyo," he replied, switching abruptly to English and acquiring a distinct Dublin brogue not unlike that of the man he was speaking to. "There's much that escapes your notice."

Doyle frowned, glancing around them and seeing nothing but scraggly vegitation, the shimmering black waters of the river, and the gray mist that blanketed everything in sight. "Where am I?" he asked, hoping that the old man would know the territory, or perhaps have a cabin nearby, with a raging fire and thick potato stew...

"You're here," the old man replied, a gap-toothed smile tugging at the deep wrinkles and folds of his face, deepening the creases. "You're where you need to be. Back at the beginning."

Doyle's frown deepened and he looked around again, trying to find something familiar in the terrain. "But what is this place? Is this real?"

The old man shrugged and stood, bending over carefully to retrieve a bow and club from the ground, slinging one over each shoulder. "It could be the afterlife," the old man said thoughtfully, his free hand rubbing at his chin. "Or it could be a hallucination. Maybe it's all in your head, if there's anything left of it." The old man chuckled as he began to shuffle off into the dense fog and perpetual twilight.

"Wait!" Doyle cried, halting the man with a hand on his shoulder. "Please, I don't know where I am, and you're the only person here. Could you please tell me where I am? How to get home?"

"Ask someone else," the old man answered, shrugging off the restraining hand and continuing to walk away. "I have poems to compose."

"But there's no one else here!" Doyle argued, eyes straining to watch the old man's retreating back.

"The shore is busy with the dead," the old man replied over his shoulder.

The Irishman's hands curled into frustrated fists as the old man disappeared, and his eyes scanned the riverbanks again, searching for any signs of life.

The first hint of movement was barely visible from the corner of his eye, but it was there nonetheless; Francis snapped his gaze to the small glimmer of life, and was surprised to see a woman standing there. When he glanced back up the bank the other way, the space was packed with men, women, and children, all standing anxiously at the river's banks. And suddenly, either way his eyes searched, there were people. Hundreds of them moved silently about the riverbank. Most didn't look at one another; many didn't seem to notice that the others were there at all. All were devoid of color, cast in shades of gray and blending in with the mists around them.

On the river, long boats emerged from the fog, steered by lean men with small deer-like antlers on their cowled heads. They paused at the banks not far from where Doyle stood, and each time a boat stopped several people would pile in. Sometimes they were simply ferried across the water to the opposite shore, and sometimes the boat carried them further downstream until they disappeared into the haze that hid the world.

The shades along the banks ignored Doyle when he tried to speak to them, and they ignored him when he pressed closer to the water's edge. He stood close to the water's edge, watching the vessels come and go in a seemingly endless stream, the slender boatmen indistinguishable from one another.

When one of the boats slipped up to the bank right in front of Doyle, he tried to take a step back, but the ghosts on the shore were already pushing forward, and he stumbled into the boat with them. The silent boatman simply pushed them across the placid waters to the other side, where the ghosts scrambled out.

Doyle didn't move. The boatman looked at him expectantly, and when the Irishman still didn't move to get out of the boat, the horned man tilted his head toward the shore.

"I want you to take me home," Doyle told the boatman. "I think I understand that I'm dead and all. I get that, I'm not in denial. All I'm saying is... I'm not gonna take death lyin' down. Now shove off with your little stick and take me back, or I want to see your supervisor, bud."

The boatman was impassive, his shadowed face blank, so Doyle lunged from his seat, wrapped one antler in a firm grip, and twisted sharply. The boatman didn't make a sound, but he stumbled to one knee, and his smooth face finally cracked into a grimace.

"You listenin' to me, man?" Doyle growled. He tried to will his demonic face to the fore, tried to force the spines to erupt from his skin, but the change wouldn't come, so he made due with what he had. "I'm cold, and I'm hungry, and I'm not much in the mood for uncooperative attitudes."

"Your life is gone, Alan Francis Doyle," the boatman finally replied, his answer whispered in a strange, deep voice. "I cannot take you back."

Doyle's teeth clenched together, the muscles in his jaw tight and his grip tightening on the boatman's antler. "We'll see about that," he replied tersely. He gave the antler another sharp tug, then released it altogether and sat down on the narrow wooden bench again as the boatman climbed back to his feet.

The boatman needed no further urging; his face once again impassive, he set the long pole in his hands against the riverbank and pushed the boat back out into the flow of the water. The boat drifted gently, urged along by the boatman's pole, and in moments they vanished into the fog.

PART 2

Cordelia Chase dreamed of blue eyes that sometimes turned green. She dreamed of strong arms wrapped around her, and pressing a kiss to his collarbone, soft chesthair brushing at her nose. She dreamed of smooth, pale skin, and wide, loving smiles. She dreamed of a single pained scream, and her phantom lover crumbled to dust in her arms.

Cordelia scrambled into wakefulness, clawing her way toward consciousness until she finally wrenched herself from sleep, her breaths coming fast and the bed sheets were twisted around her feet. She glanced at the clock, and it looked back with an impassive face, glowering sullenly into the darkness. She didn't have to be to work for another two hours, and after several late nights at the Agency, she knew she could use the rest. But his scream still echoed in her head, and she could almost smell his aftershave, as if he'd just exited the room and the scent had lingered behind him.

Biting her own lip and cursing the tears that welled in her eyes at the mere thought of Doyle, Cordelia disentangled herself from the sheets and walked slowly across the room to the bathroom, intent on washing away the morning's grief and forgetting his scream in the hiss of the showerhead.

She'd been in the shower for nearly an hour when the vision came; it hit her just as she bent over to turn off the water, and it felt so much like a physical blow that for a moment she feared that someone was actually attacking her. But images followed on the heels of the splitting pain, and she surrendered herself to it, on her knees and hunched over in the bottom of the shower. When the vision finally vanished and took the paralyzing pain with it, it left an intense throbbing in her head, and she realized dimly that blood was streaming down her face from a wound on her forehead. But already the vision was fleeing her mind, and she hurriedly bundled herself in a thick towel, drying a hand and moving as quickly as she could stand back to the bedroom, where she retrieved the pen and pad from her nightstand and wrote down every detail that remained in her mind. There weren't many, but it was something.

A drop of her blood slipped delicately from her chin and landed as a tiny splatter on the notepad, and she sighed, rising carefully to fight off dizziness as she headed back to the bathroom to treat her wounds and prepare herself for the day ahead. She had a feeling that more long nights were ahead of her.

+++

Wesley insisted on checking her head when he came into the office that day, but she batted his hands away and scowled until he backed off again, leaving her alone. She ignored him as she checked the answering machine, deleting the single message, and she paid no attention to the injured-puppy look on his face.

Sometimes she could swear she still felt Doyle's hands on her, his fingers pressing against the soft flesh of her waist as they shared that single, passionate kiss. After her dream -- which had been a very good one, until it had turned into a nightmare instead -- she couldn't abide another man's hands on her.

She knew it was crazy. She knew that she needed to move on. She knew that he was dead. And she knew that she hadn't been in love with him. Had loved him, yes -- as a friend, and a brother, and the annoying little drunk that he was. But there had been no time for "in love". They hadn't had much of a chance. Fate had been unkind.

But she clung to him, anyway, to the memory of a grin that hid his true self-conscious nature and gentle lips as they brushed against hers. She held those memories close to her heart, because they were all she had left of him.

When Angel emerged from his apartment later in the afternoon, he found Cordelia seated at her desk, apparently deep in thought, and Wesley at the far end of the couch, his nose buried in a demonology text but his eyes sneaking glances at the young would-be starlet.

"Morning, Angel," Cordelia said absently, handing him a folded piece of paper as he passed her desk, headed for the coffee machine.

"What happened to your head?" he asked, dropping the note onto the table as he poured himself a cup of coffee. Doyle had promised to show Cordelia how to make something that could actually be called coffee, but he hadn't gotten around to it before...

Angel grimaced and dropped that line of thought, turning around and leaning on the edge of the small table that held the coffee maker.

"Duh," Cordelia snapped, gesturing to the note, which still sat on the table behind Angel. "I had a vision. Smacked my head on the faucet in the shower."

Angel raised an eyebrow at her, wondering at her sharp tone, and she immediately dropped her head, muttering an apology. "What's the matter, Cord?" he asked, gently.

"I miss him," she answered, quietly and honestly, and no one had to ask who she meant.

The vampire's gaze dropped to the floor and he frowned, his own grief surging to the surface again. It had been nearly a month, but the wound was fresh. Wesley was wise enough not to intrude on the moment, and returned his attention to his book. Angel hesitated, torn between comforting Cordelia and leaving her alone with her grief. He decided on the latter course of action and set his mug on the table, reaching for the note instead of for the girl.

Cordelia tried not to look at him with too much gratitude on her face, thankful for his understanding but not wanting to cause him more pain than he already carried. Instead, she carefully studied her fingernails and listened to the rustling of the note paper as Angel unfolded it, his eyes scanning the contents.

"Melanie and Phoebe Gray, 478 Barker Street. Get anything else? Like how we're supposed to help them?"

Cordelia shook her head. "We're not supposed to help them," she answered. "They're going to help us."

+++

When the sun finally set, the trio piled into Angel's convertable and hit the road, headed for Barker Street. They were all uncharacteristically silent: Cordelia stared at the passing scenery without seeing it. Angel gripped the steering wheel, his hands clenching and then relaxing their hold. Wesley was sullen in the back; he didn't attempt to draw Cordelia into conversation as he normally would, and instead he just sighed loudly several times, hoping someone else would speak first, before he finally gave it up and decided to study the car's leather interiors.

"Cordelia," Angel finally said, as they exited the freeway, "you must've seen more in your vision. Do you have any idea what this is about? Or who these people are?"

She turned her head to glance at him, then looked back at the passing scenery. Her slender shoulders shrugged, and one hand rose to brush back the locks of hair that the wind had blown over her face. "There's not much to tell you," she said. "It was mostly freaky disconnected stuff. Really weird. Like a slide show from your Aunt Ethel's vacation in Bizarro-Land. Just images. None of them made much sense."

"Could you make any of them out?" Wesley asked, leaning forward between Cordelia's seat and Angel's, trying to get close enough to be heard over the road noise.

Cordelia shrugged again, and didn't bother to look at him. "A boat," she finally answered. "Horses in a field. An old man, frowning. Lightning. A wide, black river. Your usual messed up vision-y stuff, but moreso. I couldn't make any sense of it. The only real clue I got was the names and address."

They quieted as the car rolled to a halt at the side of a narrow residential road. "Barker Street," Angel said. "478. Maybe they'll have the answers we're lacking."

His long coat shifted around him as he exited the car, and he strode ahead of Cordelia and Wesley up the short walk to the front door, where he rapped his knuckles firmly on the wood. They stood together on the small porch, waiting for some reply. Thick, heavy clouds rolled across the moon, casting the entire street into deeper darkness. Cordelia shivered and frowned, a new headache developing in her temples and a sense of unease draping her like a shawl, raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck and making her clench her teeth.

The door swung open, and before Cordelia even turned back to see who had opened it, her bad feeling intensified.

PART 3

At first, Doyle thought that the only sounds on the river were the rustle of the boatman's robes and the gentle slosh of his stick in the water. But as their journey progressed, he began to pick out other noises. Somewhere on the riverbanks, reeds rustled, then stopped abruptly, as if someone were lurking there. The water, too, was disturbed; he saw ripples occasionally, things that looked like the backs of large fish, causing ripples as they moved just below the surface. The boatman gave no indication that anything was amiss, and did not seem to notice the noises, which only made Doyle more uncomfortable.

"Where are we going?" he asked, suspicious. Even in the dense blanket of fog, his voice sounded strangely loud to him.

The boatman didn't look at him. His antlered head was focused on some point beyond Doyle, and that was when the half-demon realized that they were no longer alone on the water.

The other boat skimmed up alongside them even before he could turn to look behind, and the antlered boatman in Doyle's vessel dropped his pole and in one smooth motion, leapt across the several feet between boats to land with his fellow boatman in the other craft. Both men wore expressionless faces as Doyle's guide sat down, and the second boatman halted his vessel, only to begin easily guiding it back upstream.

Doyle's quick reflexes allowed him to catch the pole his boatman had dropped before it could be lost to the water, and he grabbed it firmly with both hands, his heart pounding at how close he had come to being cast adrift on the river. Somehow he knew that he wouldn't like what he'd find at the water's end, or in the water itself.

When he looked back, the two boatmen had nearly disappeared into the fog once again, but the one who had taken him this far looked back at him, expressionless. His strange, deep voice carried back over the water, though his lips scarcely moved.

"There are things worse than death, Francis," he said. "Mind that you do not discover them. I can take you no further... only you can see your journey to its end."

Doyle could barely hear the boatman's last words as the other vessel vanished into the mist, and he stood carefully, leaning forward to hear the antlered man's fading voice.

When no further words came, and Doyle was completely alone on the river again, he gripped the long pole harder, then sank it into the water until it hit the river bottom, slowing the boat down.

"Does everyone here have to be so feckin' cryptic all the time?" he muttered to himself, a frown pulling at his lips and brow. "Is it so hard just to say, 'Oh, right, boyo, to get back to the land of the livin' you go down the river a stretch, hang a left, and the train station's right there'? As if everybody callin' me 'Francis' isn't bad enough..."

He trailed off, unnerved by the sound of his own voice spreading out across the water. He kept his balance carefully, not wanting to overturn the boat, and surveyed his surroundings. He could see nothing else on the water, and only when the light breeze shifted the fog could he catch glimpses of the short scrub and protruding rocks along either bank.

There was a sound of rustling in the reeds again, but he could see nothing. The boat bobbed gently against the water's sedate movement as he kept the vessel stilled. Somewhere to the left, the water gurgled and the glistening back of some creature was visible just underneath the ripples generated by its passage.

Something hit the bottom of the boat. Doyle could feel the impact through his shoes and he started, nearly falling out of the boat; another audible thunk, and he pulled the pole from the riverbed and set the boat moving downstream again.

Whatever was under the water only intensified its attack when the boat began moving again; the blows to the hull came harder, and Doyle could only grit his teeth and propel the boat faster, his movements clumsy with inexperience and increasing fear.

When Doyle spotted a clear bit of bank ideal for landing, his boat was already taking on water. Cracks and holes in the hull admitted a steady stream of water, and already he was up to his ankles. The shore drew nearer, and Doyle prayed that the boat would hold together long enough to get him there. There was another loud thunk, the sound of cracking wood, and near his feet, something hissed.

He was nearly ready to jump out of the boat and into the water, but whatever had made its way into the boat, there would be more in the river, and he wasn't ready to risk it. With nearly a yard left to propel the boat before he could safely leap to shore, Doyle looked down to see what kind of creature he now shared his boat with.

The thing was wedged into a hole in the hull, halfway in the boat and halfway out, plugging the gap quite effectively with its slimy girth. It was a fish -- or at least, that was the only way Doyle could classify it -- with a long head, shining silver eyes, and clawed fins that it was attempting to use to pull itself further into the boat. It looked up to meet its eyes, and opened a mouth bristling with sharp teeth, another hiss issuing from its pulsing gills.

Doyle tried to maintain control of himself for as long as possible, fighting the fear of the animal that made his hands shake and sweat roll down from his hairline. There was another groan of wood, and a wet slither as the fish broke free from the hole and splashed into the water that had accumulated around Doyle's feet. The hull scraped through gritty mud as he shoved the pole one last time and thrust the vessel forward into the riverbank. Doyle jumped over the bow and out onto the muddy bank, scrambling to get away from the water and the toothy fish that was looking to make a meal of his feet. He could see the fish's dark, glistening body thrashing about in the boat; it hadn't been half in the vessel after all; only the front portion of it had been lodged in that hole, and now that he could see the thing, he guessed that it was at least two feet long.

The fog hung mostly over the water, instead of the bank, and when he was finally able to tear his eyes away from the remains of his boat, Doyle was afforded a better view of his new surroundings than he'd had on the where the boatmen populated the river.

The vegitation was thicker here; around his soaked feet, tall grass swayed with the slight breeze. Bushes ringed the small bank, grasping at his pantlegs with thorny arms. Behind him, large trees rose up from the damp earth, clustered close together and crowding the riverbank. Their bark was dark and rough, and their barren branches stretched skyward, crossing with one another to form a thick canopy. From the flat bank he'd just landed on, a thinly defined trail -- probably made by deer, or some other creature he didn't particularly want to contemplate -- cut through the trees and led into the forest. Overhead, thick black clouds gathered, covering a perpetually gray sky. Thunder growled in the distance; lightning skittered, blue-tinged white, underneath the belly of the clouds.

With the distinct feeling that he had only one option, Doyle sighed, pulled his worn leather jacket tighter around him, and stepped into the woods.

PART 4

The house on Barker Street was overheated, and the heat flowing from the vents made the air heavy and cloying. There was a smell like scorched metal, and it clung to Cordelia's tongue when she breathed, making her mouth feel like it was filled with glue. Angel didn't seem to notice the change in temperature, though Wesley obviously did; the Englishman loosened his tie, his mouth hanging open as they followed their hostess down the long, narrow hallway.

In life, Melanie looked much like she had in Cordelia's vision, but this time there was no blinding pain accompanying the image. Her smile was warm, her teeth white and even, her skin a smooth chocolate brown, her dark eyes sparkling and her black hair contributing to the effect with a lustrous shimmer.

Cordelia hated her immediately.

"My sister and I have dreams," Melanie explained, her long, flowing black dress shifting around her feet as she padded barefoot deeper into the house. "Since we were children, we've had dreams. People, places, things that will happen... and we've seen you, Angel."

The room they finally emerged into, at the back of the house, was spacious and tastefully decorated. Three couches formed a U in the center of the room, facing a fireplace that roared despite the temperate January weather. Another woman sat on the couch, her shining white hair clinging to the cushions behind her head. Her skin was white, and her eyes a faint pinkish color. Though she was obviously an albino, her face was identical to Melanie's in all but color. She smiled, and her teeth were nearly indistinguishable from her lips.

"Hello, I'm Phoebe. Please, sit," she invited, reaching out to take her sister's hand as the dark woman sat down beside her. Cordelia and Wesley sat on the couches opposite, perched on the edges of their seats and obviously uncomfortable. Angel remained in the doorway, his large frame and long black coat seeming to fill the exit.

"I see you are not at ease," Phoebe began. "And for this I will make your visit quick. You have been sent to us by the Powers That Be, because you need our help. This is a matter of great importance and your roles are essential."

Her words seemed to spark Wesley's interest, and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and an eager expression on his face. "What sort of mission is it?" he asked.

Melanie smiled at him indulgently and took up the tale. "There are certain rules," she explained, her face turning somber again, "which govern the way that our world interacts with others. There are protocols for handling the transit of humans, demons, the dead of all worlds. Sometimes the rules are bent, but disaster is the only outcome when they are broken."

"And someone's trying to break these rules?" Angel asked, trying to lead them to the conclusion. He crossed his arms over his chest, itching to get out of the house but unable to determine why.

The strange sisters nodded in unison, but only Phoebe answered his question. "A soul -- recently deceased of our world -- is attempting to cross back into our realm, into life. He's strong, willful, and we believe that he might succeed."

"And if he does?" Wesley inquired. Cordelia shifted next to him, her mouth closed and a frown etched on her forehead.

"It would open rifts between our world and the lands of the dead," Melanie replied seriously. "Many of the dead are unwilling to admit that they *are* dead, and many would return to our world instead of moving to other realms, as they should. There would be poltergeists in every home, spirits wandering every street, chaos and bloodshed caused by the angry phantoms of the dead."

When Melanie finished speaking, a heavy silence descended on the room, but Cordelia quickly broke it. She stood abruptly, the couch shifting under her motion and groaning as it gave up her weight. Her eyes -- as haunted as the vision the sisters had painted of the future -- met Angel's for a moment before she fled back down the hallway, toward the front door. Angel watched her go, and decided not to pursue, giving Cordelia a moment alone.

"Is she alright?" Phoebe asked.

"Not ill, I hope?" her sister added.

Angel shook his head. "She's fine. It's just been a rough night. Is there anything more you can tell us?"

They nodded at him in perfect synch, then looked at one another, rising smoothly from the couch in one motion and moving to the fireplace mantle, where they collected a few large jars and blew the dust from their lids.

Without a word, they both sat down daintily on the floor, setting down their jars around them. Phoebe pulled a large silver dish from under one of the couches and set it down between them, then uncorked one of her jars.

The liquid that Phoebe poured into the dish was black and thick, like oil, but didn't have any odor that Angel could detect. The albino poured out enough of the sludge to form a thin covering over the bottom of the dish, then recorked her jar and set it aside. Melanie followed suit, uncorking one of her jars and pouring just a small amount of the liquid in to mingle with the black oil. This time it was a substance that Angel recognized; the smell that suddenly filled his senses was that of blood. It was human, and fresh.

Other liquids were quickly added; incense and more oils all swirled together under the dish was brimming with it and could hold no more. The sisters chanted together softly in Latin, but Angel could scarcely make it out. They seemed to be turning the filled dish as a scrying bowl. Their heads bent together over it and they peered into the liquids with frightening intensity, then suddenly leaned back again. Phoebe looked up, and Melanie twisted to look over her shoulder. Their gazes landed on Angel, and he found himself straightening and unfolding his arms, his nerves twisted and strained.

"Already he has completed a part of his journey," Phoebe said. Her voice seemed deeper and her pink eyes had gone a little red, but Angel was sure it was a trick of the light. "He has survived the first peril and he walks the spirit world alone."

Melanie picked up without pause. "He will return to our realm as nothing more than a shade, but his journey will lead him to the water's side, where spirit forms flesh. He must be banished back to the land of the dead before his body is reborn."

Both sisters slumped visibly, suddenly appearing worn. The liquid had vanished from their scrying bowl, and they pushed the dish aside, clinging to one another for support.

"I hope that this information has helped you," the albino said. "And if it doesn't, may the Powers watch over us all in the dark times ahead."

Angel frowned, muttered a quick thank-you, and left the house with Wesley trailing close behind him. The scent of the blood remained in his nostrils, and matching aches formed in his teeth and forehead as he fought the demon inside of him that pushed for release. Outside, he spotted Cordelia leaning against the side of the building, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach and her head lowered; long, dark hair obscured her face from his view.

The two humans and their vampire companion climbed into Angel's convertible without a word passing between them, all lost in their separate thoughts as they left the house behind.

Inside, Melanie and Phoebe watched the trio's departure from the living room window. Their weariness was gone, and their own silence was only broken as the car's taillights faded into the night.

"Do you think they'll succeed?" Melanie asked her sister, absently taking the albino's hand.

"They're nothing if not determined," her sister replied, with a knowing smile. "They'll do as we've told them, because they see no reason to distrust us. The little Seer did have us in her vision, after all."

They regarded the night together in comfortable quiet for a time, and then Melanie sighed, releasing her sister's hand.

"Get some sleep," she murmured lovingly to her sister. "The partners are expecting us bright and early at the firm tomorrow morning."

Phoebe nodded her acknowledgement, and received a quick peck on the cheek from Melanie before her dark-skinned sister turned and vanished into the even darker hallway. The light from the crescent moon splashed in the windows and glowed off the albino's white skin, and the gleaming teeth in her smile.

PART 5

The noises began when he was too deep inside the woods to flee blindly in terror, as instinct commanded. From all directions, though scarcely simultaneously, he could hear the brittle snap of branches, the rustle of displayed leaves, and the soft sound of more than one mouth breathing.

Doyle stuck to the narrow path and searched the surrounding foliage carefully with his eyes, but he never saw whatever it was that kept pace with him through the woods. His own feet crunched loudly in the dense ground cover of weed-laden grasses and fallen leaves, and the sound made him wince, wishing he could stop moving until the things following him grew bored and left him alone.

He seriously doubted that they would, though, and that had him worried.

His troubles multiplied when the engorged black clouds above finally unleashed their storm; though the thin branches of the trees surrounding him were tightly knit, they didn't shelter him from the tiny droplets of water that fell in a freezing torrent from the sky. He was quickly drenched, and his pace slowed as he was forced to maneuver around deep puddles and lift his feet from the thick, grasping mud. He could no longer hear the passage of the things in the woods; the rattle of the rain drowned out whatever other sounds that the forest might have yielded.

His head was down in an effort to keep the rain out of his eyes, and he watched carefully for puddles and holes filled with water, wary of twisting an ankle. So the appearance of the ground was his first awareness of change, and he was suitably surprised when he found himself with one foot mired in deep mud and being assaulted by rain, and the other foot planted in deep green grass, warmed by the sun.

He took another stumbling step before his brain even registered that something was happening, and suddenly he was standing in a warm, sunlight meadow. Turning to look behind him, he saw no path, but the trees looked healthy and in the full green bloom of spring, very much unlike the forest he had formerly been traversing. The meadow itself was lushly green as well, and highlighted by large stretches of blooming flowers, which swayed back and forth with the warm breeze.

Doyle himself was still sopping wet, his shoes caked with mud and his clothes plastered to his body. He raised his hands to rub the water from his eyes, making sure that the peaceful -- and very warm -- scene before him was a reality. It remained even when his eyes were clear, and he smiled a very wide smile before stepping further into the meadow.

The sound of tinkling laughter and running water drew him downhill, and he stumbled his way closer to the sound, his legs burning with fatigue from his walk through the forest and his throat suddenly feeling very dry.

The girls were seated at the edge of a small, clear stream, their brightly colored, intricate dresses pooled around them in the grass. Their voices rose above the gurgling sound of the water as they laughed at something one of them had said, and their smiles made their beautiful faces shine. Their horses milled about nearby, outfitted in dyed leather harnesses and all the finer trimmings, grazing peacefully on the lush green grass.

The entire scene made Doyle achingly tired; he wanted to drink the water, lie down in the grass, and sleep for eternity surrounded by lovely girls. But he wasn't an idiot. He'd grown up Irish with a grandmother who had delighted in telling tales of knights and heroes. He knew a set-up when he saw one, and he knew that when things looked too good to be true, there was probably something very mean and very hungry waiting nearby to gnaw on his head.

"Ladies," he greeted, so as not to startle the women with his presence, and the laughter abruptly halted, their big-eyed gazes turning to him.

"Good sir," one of them cooed, standing up and sashaying her way closer. "You must be tired and thirsty. Come... drink from the stream and dry your clothes in the sun. We will keep you company." Her smile was seduction and sunshine, and he found himself stepping up to the banks of the little stream, smiling a bit too brightly at the five other girls seated in the grass.

They returned his smile with the sun-warmed laziness of cats, and it infected him, too; his knees weakened and he slumped bonelessly in the grass, the scent of pansies and rosemary filling his nostrils. The sun's yellow touch heated his cold skin and slowly dried his wet clothes, and he promised himself that he would only linger for a moment to dry off and rest his tired legs before continuing on his way. The girls, now spread out around him, sang softly to themselves and each other in beautiful melodies, their long, delicate fingers plucking flowers to add to their growing bouquets.

Just as his heavy-lidded eyes slid shut, a soft hand touched his brow, startling him into wakefulness again. He looked up to see the girl who had first greeted him smiling gently down. He knew their game. He knew that he was in very deep trouble if he stayed and that no good would come of it. In his grandmother's stories, they always lured unsuspecting men in this way. He knew that they were the predators and he was the prey. And he didn't care.

It was warm in the meadow, and he was very tired.

The girl's touch grew bolder, and she slid her fingertips down his cheek, scraped her nails along the length of his throat, began unbuttoning his shirt. He sighed, and did not protest. The other girls edged closer; he could hear the rustle of their dresses in the grass. They giggled, a sound like tinkling windchimes, and another hand joined the first, tugging his button-down aside, untucking his t-shirt and running a hand up underneath.

Something hit his face and trickled down his cheek; the smell of dewy grass suddenly turned to the smell of rain. The hand on his stomach felt rough and calloused, and the ground beneath his back was wet.

Doyle's eyes flew open and he scrambled to his feet, narrowly evading the hands that grasped at him. The spot where he'd been resting was little more than rough grass and slick mud, the clear stream he'd rested by was a muddy trickle of dirty water, and the meadow just a clearing where no trees stood to shelter him from the rain. The girls with all their finery now leered at him with clear malicious intention from underneath their ragged cloaks and cowls. They seemed to still be as beautiful as they had appeared, but their eyes were black now, and heavy scars formed intricate ritual patterns on their hands. Doyle backpedaled rapidly, nearly slipping in the soaked earth, and when his back slammed into something, he remembered the horses.

He half expected to turn around and see sinister riders on the animals now, but none were there. Where horses of white and brown had stood, though, there were now only massive steeds of shining black, their worn leather tack slick with moisture. The animals themselves appeared harmless enough and simply stood, watching the proceedings with little interest.

Doyle looked back at the girls, who were advancing calmly, confident that he would not escape them, and looked back at the horse he'd run into. It blinked back at him with round brown eyes, and he made his decision. He'd never ridden a horse in his life, and it showed with the laborious attempt to get his foot into the stirrup and the three tries it took to haul himself into the saddle, but once he had both feet firmly in the stirrups and reins in his hands, he was confident enough that riding the horse would be better than running on foot. The girls had advanced as he mounted, and they tried to pull him down, but he tugged his feet from their grip, gave his horse a sharp slap on the rump, and managed to cling to the saddle as the animal took off at a gallop.

The saddle was slick with rainwater and the horse moved quickly, but Doyle squeezed the animal's sides with his knees and tangled white-knuckled fingers in the beast's mane. There was no sound of thundering hooves to signal a pursuit, but far behind him, he could hear the girls' tinkling laughter again.

CONTINUE