Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This story has been split into two parts for easier loading.

Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/soho/square/6381

This story takes place not long after the resolution to S2 (whatever that turns out to be, and whenever we get to see it).

No warnings. Spoilers for S2 and Night Shift and I don't remember what else. If you're that jumpy about it, steer clear.

I don't own the characters (not Jim, Blair, or Simon, anyway), but that's okay, because this is not for profit. Since I believe that you might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, I've included a whole pile of outside quotations, and I don't own those either. Anyone entertaining thoughts of a lawsuit, say it with me: "You can't get blood from a stone."

*****
"Archie."
"Yes, sir."
"Do I ever intrude in your private affairs?"
"Yes, sir. Frequently. But you think you don't, so go right ahead."
-Rex Stout, Champagne For One
*****

   It was funny how that damned dissertation came back to him at odd moments.

[While it seems likely that the sentinel's profound interest in his guide's activities can be attributed to the possessiveness noted above...]

   Jim leaned closer to Blair's desk and squinted, then reached over something that looked like a piece of rock to him and placed his fingertips on the small stack of letters facing Blair's chair. They were just lying there in the open. Easy to read a few lines, just by accident. Easier when they weren't upside down. Jim spun the letters around.

[It's difficult to know,]

   his memory continued,

[whether the sentinel rationalizes his invasive behavior, or simply believes without reservation that his actions are justified by his position.]

   Jim was willing to bet that he knew when Sandburg had come up with that. It would have been shortly after Jim had asked a young woman to explain exactly what she was doing in Professor Sandburg's office when he wasn't there. Well, for god's sake, he hadn't known she was a student. She didn't look nineteen. He hadn't intended to make her cry. Blair had probably thought back on all that "invasive behavior" bullshit with savage satisfaction after Jim had read his thesis without permission. Obviously, he thought he had Jim all figured out.
   "Go to hell, Sandburg," Jim said, without much malice. He kept having these fights with Blair when Blair wasn't even around, and it was starting to wear him out. If he monitored Blair with "profound interest", that would be Blair's own goddamned fault. Jim didn't want to spend his spare time rescuing Blair from sociopaths when the two of them could be at a movie or a ball game instead, and to that end he had made a point of slapping Blair's hand when the kid reached for fire. Take for example, these letters....

   Prof. Blair Sandburg Department of Anthropology Rainier University Sept. 9/98

   As it happens, I'm as familiar with your work as you are with mine. The field isn't so large that we wouldn't bump into each other I have a copy of your master's thesis. While I have my doubts as to its scientific merit, I like your audacity, as well as the fact that you got away with it. I don't mean any offense, btw. Obviously you and I have postulatory differences, which is why I haven't written you before now. I suspected we would argue to no useful purpose. Given our differences, you have your nerve asking me if I've met any subjects who fit your hypothesis. Lucky for you I like nerve. I do have something I wouldn't mind hearing your views on. But, before I do, I want to know-- have you ever run across any test subjects who fit my hypothesis? In other words... quid pro quo.

   Prof. Tom "Lecter" Maranchuk Dept. of Psychology (Parapsychological division) University of Alberta



   Prof. Blair Sandburg Dept. of Anthropology Rainier University

   Sept. 21/98

   Thanks for the case studies. That was very open- minded of you. Actually, although you left out the names, I'm pretty sure I recognize some of these people from my own interviews. It would be interesting to see how many test subjects we have in common. I don't think I have anything for you, but I could be mistaken. I'll get to that in a minute. I would like to know, if you don't mind saying, whether you've found the full "sentinel" you were looking for. This isn't just casual curiousity-- your work has implications for mine. I hear you're pretty secretive, so I guess I won't hold my breath for an answer. Anyway... you're probably familiar with the folklore which attributes heightened senses to a variety of supernatural creatures-- among them, vampires and werewolves. You may not be aware that most major cities now host gatherings for people who are fascinated by these genres...some of whom actually claim to be vampires or werewolves. A few months ago, knowing that I followed your work, a friend gave me an article which listed you as a "contributor." The article was on physical stimuli for folklore- related delusions. I'm sure you're intimately familiar with it. I'm sure you meant for people to assume that your "contribution" came from your knowledge of folklore. I choose to assume that you practically wrote that article, then worked out an arrangement for publishing with someone who was (technically speaking) qualified to write it...but that's neither here nor there. The point is, you gave me an idea. It seemed perfectly possible that someone who was clairvoyant or clairaudient (for example) might hear legends about creatures with heightened senses, and take them to heart. We both know that subjects with heightened senses can become unbalanced and exhibit a number of subsequent neuroses. I decided to follow this up by delving into Edmonton's "vampire" community, and I think I have a lead on someone who may have heightened senses. I assume you know a "sentinel" when you see one. I was wondering if you might like to come up here and investigate the matter with me. I'm looking at the first week in October. I think I can convince my department to fly you up here (you do have a unique expertise, after all...and I know a few people who want to meet you) Will that work for you? Or will you be too busy with your sentinel(s)?

   Tom "Van Helsing" Maranchuk Department of Psychology (Parapsychological division) University of Alberta

   Jim carefully slid the letters back into place.
   "Jesus, Sandburg...I should shoot you with my own gun. At least I know *I* would make it a clean kill." Jim didn't bother to turn when the office door opened, and Blair didn't bother to greet him. He threw books he'd been cradling like children onto his desk, dropped into his chair and gave Jim a tired but friendly smile.
   "You," he said, "are the first *nice* surprise I've had all day." Jim decided not to shoot him after all.
   "What the hell is this thing?" he asked, gesturing at the rock. Blair was rifling though the books, tossing the occasional volume into his backpack.
   "Ancient Mesopotamian artifact." Jim picked it up. It still looked like a rock.
   "What was it?" Blair transferred the rest of the books to the shelf behind his desk, below a sign which read, Finagle's Third Law of Scientific Research: Always verify your witchcraft.
   "Actually," he said casually, forcing the last book into place, "it was a bottle opener." Jim turned the rock over, looking...the shut his eyes and listened. Just a little, just the tiniest bit fast.
   "Liar," he said. Blair sat down, grinning.
   "Had you going." Jim shrugged.
   "How am I supposed to know?" Blair didn't answer, and Jim had a feeling that was a kindness.
   "So, what're you doing here?" Jim's mouth twitched. Only Blair could pull off that particular combination of warmth and suspicion.
   "I can't just stop by without a reason? I thought I'd take you to dinner." Blair stared at him.
   "As in, you're buying?"
   "Yes."
   "Let me give that some thought. You mind if I think aloud?"
   "Yeah. But that never stops you." Blair focused on something just over Jim's shoulder.
   "He not only dropped by unannounced, he offered to buy dinner. Therefore, he wants *something*, and he'll probably bring it up over dinner, when you'll feel obligated to say yes. The thing he fails to realize is, whatever it is he wants, you'd probably do it anyway. And because you're going to do whatever it is anyway, there's no harm in accepting a free dinner first." He moved his eyes to meet Jim's.
   "Sounds good. Let's go." Jim shook his head.
   "Is that what you think of me, Sandburg? Here I am, doing something nice with no ulterior motive..." Halfway through that speech, Blair started to smile. Jim relaxed.
   "You're easy to needle today." Blair said it gently, and Jim heard the question.
   "It's been a stupid day," he answered. "Come on." He picked up Blair's jacket and almost managed to hand it over without the earth shifting beneath him. The jacket had been a write-off, really, soaked in chlorinated water for so long...but when Blair tried to throw it out, Jim had silently retrieved it from the trash and taken it to be cleaned.
   "Perfectly good jacket," he'd said upon returning it to Blair. Later that night, he'd heard Blair crying in his room. It wasn't bad crying. Jim had left it alone. Now the kid put that jacket on as though nothing had ever happened. Jim put a hand on the worn material as they walked to the truck.

*****
"Look! I came in here for an argument."
"Oh! I'm sorry, this is abuse."
"Oh I see, that explains it."
   -Monty Python, Argument Clinic
*****

   "Tha-"Blair swallowed penne and tried again. "That was *not* smart. What was he thinking?" Jim shrugged.
   "He was thinking that he needed a car." Late that morning, a rookie had found that the car he needed for his shift hadn't been returned yet. Not wanting to be late, he'd taken the only car he could find-- the public relations department's talking police car.
   "Did anything *happen*?" Jim poured himself another glass of wine, refilled Blair's glass at the same time.
   "You'll see it on the news. I don't know if I want to spoil it for you."
   "Go ahead. I may have to get to work as soon as we get home anyhow." [On what], Jim thought, then filed it away for later.
   "Well...picture an armed robbery in progress, this cop car with a big smiling face on it parked out front, and Anderson inside using the loudspeaker to say..."He switched to a passable imitation of Goofy, "Come out with your hands up." Blair let his fork fall onto his plate.
   "I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Children follow that thing around."
   "I know. It looks pretty bad."
   "And the media has this?"
   "Yeah." Jim took a swallow of wine. "Typical. Where are they when we do something right?" Blair grinned.
   "You should not have dumped that reporter so harshly. I'm starting to think she's made it a personal crusade-"
   "I was not harsh," Jim said, "just...definite. And talking it out on Cascade PD in general, that's petty."
   "True," Blair conceded. That settled, he went back to his food. Jim watched him. Blair had his hair pulled back in one of those leather ties which Jim could never believe held all that hair. His full attention was on the penne primavera, and Jim had a feeling he was trying to pick out the cauliflower without being obvious about it. He looked slightly bookish, dangerously cute, and extremely young. No question about it-- this kid was not equipped to be hunting down psychos who thought they were vampires. Jim had a responsibility to say something.
   "I couldn't help noticing," he began. Blair looked up immediately. Jim didn't care for the look on Blair's face, but he plowed on. "I couldn't help noticing those letters on your desk." The heart rate was fast...temperature up...small lines around the set mouth. Uh oh.
   "Couldn't help..." Blair shook his head as if shaking off a fly. "Okay. Okay. I've encouraged you to accept your genetic inheritance. It's just my bad luck that you're hardwired to be nosy. So. You went through my correspondence *and*..." Jim didn't handle it well when Blair was this angry with him.
   "What the hell is going through your head? Are you *trying* to get killed? I get the impression you write to that psycho *first*." Weirdly, Blair seemed to have calmed down. He even smiled.
   "He's annoying, but he's not a psycho."
   "He's a 'parapsychologist', right? Spends him time chasing ghosts, and showing people cards with stars and circles on them?"
   "Zener card," Blair said, seemingly for lack of anything better coming to mind. "Yeah, essentially that's the deal, but that doesn't mean he's crazy."
   "He is if he wants to mess with people who think they need to drink human blood."
   "I see your point," Blair said, eyes wide. "Test subjects can be dangerous. Sometimes they slam you up against walls, and get you kidnapped, and..."

[And some try to kill you. Time to change the subject.]

   "Why are you even doing this? *Are* you doing this?"
   "I was going to, yes."
   "Why? You don't need to run around looking for sentinels. You've got one."
   "I know, but having a larger sample..."He stopped. "Look. Jim." He looked both tolerant and amused. Jim hated that look.
   "What."
   "I don't mean to be rude or anything, but this really isn't any of your business." Jim couldn't possibly have heard that right.
   "I can't believe I have to remind you of this, but we're partners."
   "At the station, yeah. I mean, our arrangement right from the beginning was that you act as a test subject for me, and I would help with the senses. As it turned out, that meant becoming your partner. There's a lot more going on with us now than there was then, but the fact remains that whatever other research I need to conduct doesn't concern you. I can't believe *I* to remind *you*of this, but you are not an anthropologist. I am doing my actual job, for which I am trained and competent." Jim was sure they made an interesting picture, sitting at that table. Portrait of two people who are not going to discuss what happened the last time Blair did other research. Still life with avoidance.
   "You know I like an ordered life," Jim said, sailing as near the wind as he could brook. "Things are arranged pretty well right now. I don't welcome any disruptions."
   "I don't think this is going to be a problem..."
   "You don't think *anything* is going to be a problem," Jim snapped. "You don't think."
   "This is not a police matter. I don't have to defer to your better judgment. I know what I'm doing. Does that bother you?"
   "It wouldn't if I believed it!"People were starting to stare. Jim lowered his voice. "Not as a cop. As a friend. As your Blessed Protector. This sounds dangerous to me. I don't like it. And I'll tell you something else-- you are not dragging me into this. I am not going to Canada to watch over you, because you are not going to Canada." Oh, Jesus, that was no way to handle this. He wouldn't be surprised to find that Blair was telekinetically packing his bags from where he sat.
   "I'm an adult, Jim. I don't need permission. I *am* going to Edmonton and I'm going to do my job. I'm not dragging you into anything. I wasn't even going to tell--"
   "No, of course not. You knew I wouldn't like it." Blair leaned back in his chair. He looked tired, suddenly.
   "Yeah. I guess I did. But that doesn't mean you're right."He actually smiled, which Jim considered pretty gracious. Then again, Blair could afford to be gracious. No matter what Jim said, Blair was going to have his way. "Jim, I have been all over the world. I lived on my own for years before we met. I know how you are, and I'm sorry to be stressing you, but I will honestly be *fine*. I'll be gone for, like, three days, and then I'll come home. I promise."

[You can't promise that.]

   Jim shut his eyes.
   "Tell me as soon as you know when you're going. I have to book those days off, and get tickets..."
   "Did I say you were invited?" Jim opened his eyes and saw Blair smiling at him. Teasing. He took a deep breath.
   "Sandburg, if you left those letters out on purpose, I had better not find out. Ever." Blair raised an eyebrow.
   "I didn't." Jim didn't have the heart to check.
   "Come on, Chief. I'll take you home."

*****
There are plenty of annoying tests you have to take after college, and you might as well start cheating on them. No talking; pencils down; this may go on your permanent record. Please begin.
   - William Poundstone, Big Secrets
*****

   Jim usually maintained that he avoided the University because academics annoyed him, which wasn't true. Well, it *was* partially true, but it wasn't the reason he dodged Blair's colleagues so fastidiously. He wasn't about to admit the real reason to anyone. Tom "Aren't I Clever" Maranchuk turned out to be bearable, just. He was a little less pretentious in person. He had Blair's quality of perpetual energy, and the same tendency to become lost in an idea, as if he'd fallen in love with a thought. Blair had told Tom that he was bringing along a former test subject who had enhanced hearing, to help in tracking down the "vampire."It was just close enough to the truth that they hoped it would prevent Tom from pegging Jim as the full sentinel Blair had been looking for. When they met face to face, Tom barely waited for the introductions to be made before putting one square hand on Jim's arm and earnestly inquiring as to the cause of Jim's heightened sense.
   "Runs in his family," Blair had said before Jim could answer. "Genetic abnormality."
   "Which chromosome?"Tom shot back. Blair fixed him with a weary gaze.
   "Yeah, any geneticist will tell you that it's *impossible* to see inheritance at work without a microscope. Gregor Mendel, everything he did was pure *chance*."
   "Well, in that case, maybe psychic ability runs in families," Tom said. "I have case studies -- do you mind if I run some tests on him?"
   "Why don't you ask *him*? He's standing right here." Although Jim was in no humour to answer anything Tom asked him, he could've kissed Blair for reminding the guy that Jim was a person. Before Tom could speak, he said, "I didn't come here to do tests. I came here to do Blair a favour. He thinks my hearing could help you find this guy, great. I owe Blair a few favours. You, I just met. I don't owe you anything." A cloud passed over Tom Maranchuk's round face for the briefest moment. Then,
   "One run of Zener cards, and I'll owe *you* a favour. Fifteen minutes of your time. Not even. And painless." Jim turned to Blair for a steer. Blair shrugged.
   "Fifteen minutes and painless. Unless you, like, guess *all* of them and he decides to make a career out of you."

[So don't read the reflection of the cards on his eyes. Don't try to see the impression of ink on the back of the card. Don't get cute.]

   Jim felt the corner of his mouth curve upwards.

[Message received, Chief.]

   Halfway through the cards, Jim hadn't guessed a single one right. It was easy to see the cards in the empty pop bottle over Tom's shoulder. Jim was pretty proud of himself ... until a whisper reached him from across the room.
   "Law of averages, big guy." Without glancing up from the cards, Tom pointed at the door.
   "Leave the room, Sandburg." Blair stayed. Tom set the cards down.
   "I don't know what you did, but he just tensed. I'm starting this run again, with you elsewhere." Blair sighed dramatically.
   "As if I would interfere in legitimate research. I'm wounded, man ..." He grinned at Jim and left the room. Jim hurried through the test without cheating, his concentration on Blair's heartbeat. Steady, relaxed, only a few rooms away. Good. Tom set the cards down and looked Jim in the eye.
   "You knew them the first time. A complete wash-out is not likely to be due to chance. I don't think you were paying attention this time through. Jesus, Mr. Ellison, my field is difficult enough without genuinely talented people hiding their abilities. And I know Sandburg knows. This is unfair."
   "Again, Professor," Jim answered, "I didn't come here for you. And I don't care what you think could or could not be due to chance. I can not read your mind, and I'm not clair-whatsis--"
   "--voyant."
   "I'm not clairvoyant either. I am a completely normal guy with freakish hearing and a strange friend."
   "But why is your hearing ... oh, never mind. Bigger fish to fry." He stood. "Your strange friend is probably in the lounge." And he was, holding the attention of a roomful of people who looked unnervingly smart. Blair didn't seem unnerved.
   "What the hell were you doing sneaking into a mental hospital, anyway?" The question came from a pretty redhead who was sitting quite close to Blair. Jim wondered who had sat down first.
   "I was helping someone with a project," Blair said easily. "I can't really say anything about it." Damn straight he couldn't, since the "project" was one of Jim's cases, and Blair didn't go undercover, because he was not a cop.
   "Anyway," Blair went on, "I told them I heard voices." The people around him nodded.
   "That's the best and fastest way to get committed," someone said, and everyone laughed. Jim stayed to the back of the room, feeling awkward and two sizes too large.
   "But then they wanted to run some tests ..." Jim kept his face still, with effort. He didn't know about any tests. Once again, Sandburg had neglected to tell him the whole story.
   "I mean, the D.A.P. was simple; I just made it disjointed. And I went for paranoid on the MMPI. But then they pulled out the Rorschach ..." Rorschach. That was the inkblot test. Jim had taken it at one point, when he came back from Peru. He'd thought it was stupid, but it obviously meant something to these people.
   "So," the redhead urged, "what did you do?"
   "Well, I cried when they showed me the second plate ... I tried to hit someone over the fifth ... and when they showed me the seventh plate, I said it looked like a lamp." Silence. To that point, they'd been laughing, but that last line seemed to steal their words.
   "How ..." Tom said. "I mean, are you ..." Blair laughed.
   "No. I've seen a cheat sheet." Jim wanted to stay out of this, but it was driving him nuts.
   "How do you cheat on an inkblot test?" Someone moved to shut the lounge door, and they were all looking at Blair as if they thought they might have to kill him. Jim was, unreasonably, nervous ... but Blair seemed fine. He waved a hand at a blond man with wire-rimmed glasses.
   "You explain it. I'm not a psych major."
   "God, no. You have no sense of ..." Frustrated, the blond turned to Jim. "The Rorschach has ten blots. Always the same ten, and always in the same order. Have you ever taken it?" Jim hesitated, then nodded.
   "Okay, then I can tell you ... but don't *ever* tell *anyone* this."
   "You want me to sign something in blood?" Jim asked. No one laughed.
   "I'm serious. This is a secret. I don't even want to know how he got his hands on a cheat sheet."
   "No," Blair said, just loud enough for Jim to hear. "He doesn't." "There *are* right and wrong answers. There are things nearly everyone sees. There's deliberate sexual imagery, at least one per blot, and you're watched for how you respond." Jim thought back to the test. It was a blur now, had pretty much been a blur at the time. He just couldn't remember, and he was glad for it.
   "Plate number seven ... and this is *really* specialized knowledge ... it's supposed to look like two women facing each other. The key is in how you describe them."
   "And Blair said he saw a lamp. Big deal." The redhead laughed.
   "Oh, it's a big enough deal. You can see the lamp, plainly, if it's pointed out to you. But almost all of the people who see it spontaneously are schizophrenics. It's practically diagnostic."She turned to Blair. "You didn't need to put on a big show about the other cards. That one sealed it." Blair nodded. His eyes were very bright.
   "I know. But I enjoyed it." There was no mistaking the admiration in the way she looked at Blair.
   "My god, you are a shit-disturber." Jim had never had much faith in psychology, but he had to admit that was a pretty astute assessment from someone who hadn't known Blair very long.
   "So," she said, leaning forward, "what did you say about plate number three?" Blair shrugged.
   "I said they looked like chickens," he told her, and brought the house down. Jim was uncomfortable in the too-warm room, surrounded by smart people laughing at a joke he didn't understand. He felt oddly miserable, looking at Blair with these aliens. Blair understood them. He kept up with them, even in a field that wasn't his own. He caught their attention, knocked them on their asses, and made them laugh. Jim knew he wasn't stupid, and he didn't think Blair thought he was, but he was out of his depth here ... and he didn't enjoy the thought that, in his private conversations with Blair, the kid might be stooping to accommodate him. Suddenly homesick, he tried to catch the scent of the loft ... which these days consisted largely of Blair's herbal teas and chamomile shampoo. He found those scents, easy, and took a deep breath. Much better. Such a strange mix, Blair's witch doctor potions and Jim's cop trappings ... he could smell gun powder and oil as the gathering began to drift from the room.

[Wait just a goddamned minute ...]

   He hadn't brought a gun. He and Blair had agreed that it would be too much trouble at the airport, and Canada could be strict about guns. So why could he smell a gun so clearly? Jim's first impulse was to get between Blair and these strangers, as quickly as possible, and push Blair down behind the furniture in case shooting started. He stepped on that impulse and considered. Being without a gun himself, he wouldn't be able to do much in a firefight. This small room didn't offer much cover, and there was no back door. Just because someone was carrying a gun didn't mean they planned on using it anytime soon, so there was probably no sense in startling them. The thing to do was keep still and concentrate on tracking the smell, but Jim put that off until he'd made his way to Blair's side. Just in case. Blair looked at him, head tilted in inquiry.
   "Something wrong?" he asked, more mouthing the words than speaking them. Jim almost smiled.
   "With our track record?" Blair laughed, startling Tom, who turned to look at them. Jim tried to catch the scent of the gun, and decided Tom was in the clear.
   "You're as weird as your reputation suggests, professor. What is going on with you?" Jim answered for him, keeping in mind that hearing was the only heightened sense he was supposed to have.
   "I though I hear the hammer pull back on a gun." Blair shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Jim had seen that gesture about a million times, and it never preceded anything good.
   "Here?" he said, practically whining. "Nooooo...." Jim laughed, couldn't help it.
   "It's not anything *I* did, Chief." Tom leaned back against a vending machine.
   "Are you people in trouble?" They answered together.
   "Usually," Jim said.
   "Habitually," Blair said. Tom slid a loonie into the vending machine, without turning, and slammed his fist against one of the tabs. When a can of Coke dropped, he slid down and grabbed it, eyes fixed on Blair and Jim.
   "That's just great," he said, glaring. Jim rolled his eyes.
   "You hunt down psychos who think they're vampires, and you're worried about us bringing you trouble?" He turned to Blair, placing a hand on his chest for emphasis.
   "You. Stay. Here." Blair looked amused.
   "No problem." Everyone else had left the room. Jim stood in the hallway, eyes shut, concentrating...but it was gone.
   "It's no good," he called. Blair stepped into the hall, Tom on his heels.
   "Could be nothing, Jim. Could've been a security guard."
   "I know how you people are down in the OK Corral," Tom said, "but in this country, security guards don't tend to carry guns. There must be a real cop around here somewhere."
   "Yeah," Jim said, not meaning it.
   "So,"

*****
"To be clear, vampires are not real."
   -Mark Rein-Hagen et al, Vampire: The Masquerade
*****

   "I'm in the Larp," the contact told them. He had scruffy black hair, direct brown eyes, and an air of good-natured forbearance when speaking to Tom. Against expectation, Jim liked him.
   "The what?"Blair asked.
   "Larp. Live-action role playing. Let go of the mazes and monsters bullshit--I can see that on *your* face." Jim couldn't deny that, but he did like the kid, and he wasn't here as a cop.
   "Okay, what *is* this Larp?" He sighed and grabbed a bag of Oreos from beside the couch.
   "Kind of an improv acting deal, with some basic rules." He threw an Oreo into his mouth, downed it and tossed the bag to Tom. "Our genre is horror. I play a vampire in the game, but, see, I don't think I *am* one. Crazy fucking people are not *allowed* in this game. I just want to be clear on that, lest you start rousting my friends." Blair grinned. It was easy to see he liked the kid too.
   "Understood. I take it the vampire isn't one of your friends?"
   "Did I say vampire? I did not. I told Tom that I had seen someone who claimed to be a vampire, and who *seemed* to hear stuff pretty clearly from across the room. I only met him the one time, but he made an impression." Blair sat down next to the kid, his attention complete and encouraging.
   "Mind telling that story again?"
   "Not much to tell. We thought it would be entertaining to game at this sort of underground goth club, 'cause we had a line on where it was gonna be."
   "Think it's still there?"Blair asked.
   "Nope. As usual, they had to bug out after about a week. But I can always find it. Anyway, there was a group of crazy fucking people there claiming to be actual vampires. I'm not closed-minded. I believe in extreme possibilities. But I don't see why a real vampire would have a Cheetos wrapper sticking out of their coat pocket. And they would not let up. I mean, there's a time to drop the charade, you know? There is a time to fucking *wink*. Really annoying people."He stopped, drained half a can of Jolt, and went on. "So there we are in one corner of the room, discussing these other people, when one of them strolls over, and puts his hand on my arm. And he was *cold*. I used to put bags of ice in my coat pockets when I went to Larps so that I'd have cold hands, but they never felt like *that*. He looked me in the eye, which was unsettling, and he repeated most of what we'd said about him, which I would not have thought he could possibly have heard. And then he said..."he leaned in close to Blair, meeting his eyes for emphasis. "In future, would you please try to keep it down?" Tom swatted Blair's shoulder. "You see? Definitely something there." Blair nodded, his eyes still on the kid.
   "Worth following up. Have you been back to the club since?" The contact laughed.
   "Do I look like a crazy fucking person to you? I'm telling you, most of these people were just assholes, but that one guy was...something else. I'll get you an address, but after that, you sorry bastards are on your own."

*****
"I can accept the theory of relativity as little as I can accept the existence of atoms and other such dogmas."
   -Ernst Mach, (1838-1916), professor of physics at the University ofVienna (as quoted in Stephen Pile's Incomplete Book of Failures)
*****

   "Seeing as this is an underground club," Blair said in his most rational tone, "maybe you should listen from outside." If Blair was going to pretend to be rational, two could play at that game. Jim swiped a spring roll from Blair's plate.
   "Why is that, Chief?" Tom looked at Blair.
   "Why does he call you Chief?" Forced to choose between two questions he didn't much care for, Blair looked from one to the other and apparently opted for answering the larger man.
   "You'd clear the place."
   "Oh come on. I do not--" Blair held up a hand.
   "Tom? What do you think Jim does for a living?" Tom shrugged.
   "Private detective? Fed? Some kind of cop." Blair speared the spring roll with a chopstick and pulled it off Jim's fork.
   "The defense rests."
   "I don't know if it's safe for me to wait outside," Jim said,"I hear vampires can move pretty fast."
   "He's not serious." Blair leaned back in his chair, watching Jim.
   "Hard call. I can't always tell."
   "What if I *was* serious? You," he said, pointing his fork at Tom,"are a parapsychologist. That means you study weird shit, right?"
   "Yeah. I'm hoping they put that on my diploma when I get my Ph.D." Jim ignored the sarcasm. He was used to that particular brand of snarkiness.
   "Yet you are trying to tell me that you don't believe in vampires." Tom laughed. It made him look eight years old.
   "Only because they aren't real. I study human potential. Extra-sensory perception. Prescience. There are some flakes in my field, granted--"
   Blair, who was in the middle of swallowing water, coughed violently. Jim patted his back.
   "S'all right," Blair said quickly. "Wrong pipe. Tom, you were saying?"
   "I was saying that I am a serious scientist. I don't go off hunting things that go bump in the night." Jim gave up on him, turned to Blair.
   "What about you? You study folklore. I know you believe some of it."
   "Well, yeah, sure...but vampires? The thing about most folklore is, you can't take it at face value. It does mean something, just not what it sounds like. For example, vampire stories tend to crop up in any society experiencing sexual repression. They were in vogue in Victorian England, and they had a resurgence not long ago, coincident with AIDS. Vampire stories aren't about actual blood-sucking monsters, they're about the vilification of, and consequent fascination with, desire."
   "Are you telling me this is some depraved sexual free-for-all you'll be attending tonight?"Jim was trying not to smile. Blair grinned at him.
   "Yeah, I figure it'll be a Bosch painting come to life."
   "And you think you don't need me there?"
   "Listening from outside would be fine," Tom said. Blair ignored him, laid a hand on Jim's arm.
   "As long as you dress the way I tell you and try not to look too authoritarian, it should be okay."
   "Sandburg..." Jim warned.
   "Yeah?"
   "You don't want me to catch you enjoying this too much."

*****
Dress in black and top it off with a long, sweeping, black cloak if you think you can get away with it.
   -Owens and Rae, Bluff Your Way in the Occult
*****

   In the end, Blair didn't change Jim's look all that much.
   "It's too much to hope that we don't stand out," he explained. "I just don't want you to scream `cop'. What did you do when you worked vice?"
   "Moustache. Bandanna." Blair seemed to be concentrating intently on something. Jim suspected that something was a desperate attempt not to laugh.
   "That ... uh ... that's not the look we want tonight. Just wear black, a long coat ... you'd look goofy in make-up, so we won't go down that road."
   "All men look goofy in makeup, Sandburg." Blair shrugged.
   "Maybe. But it's probably my best shot at fitting in." They were at Tom's place, a three-storey character house which looked pretty good for thehome of four men in their twenties. Tom was scrounging for appropriate clothes, voicing relief that one of his roommates was close to Jim's size.
   "You are just a little too comfortable with this, Chief."
   "I dated a girl who liked the whole goth thing. Eventually she dumped me for making her happy." Tom walked in with an armload of clothes. Blair picked up something that looked like a black pencil crayon.
   "Okay, Jim, why don't you go somewhere and change?"
   "Maybe I want to see how practiced you really are with makeup."
   "Maybe I'll spend the next half hour lecturing you on the importance of skin painting in tribal societies." Jim knew when he was beat.
   "I'll be in the other room."
   Well, `goofy' wasn't the word for how Blair looked. He looked wildly strange, angular and maybe even dangerous. Jim found himself reaching for Blair's scent again, for something familiar. The next thing he knew, Blair's hand was on his arm.
   "Not here, not now. I do *not* want to explain a zone-out to Professor X."
   "You guys ready to go?" Tom, on the other hand, did look goofy in makeup. Jim kept his eyes on the parapsychologist most of the way to the club, because looking at Blair made him shiver and he didn't know why.

*****
Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone.
  -Leonard Cohen, Dance Me to the End of Love
*****

   It was interesting, watching Blair move through the club. Normally Blair's strong suit was approachability. He was cheerful, warm ... attractive the way a park was attractive on a perfect summer day. Tonight, he had somehow turned off the sunlight ... and people still followed him helplessly, drawn to something else. Jim took a step back, tried to view Blair as a stranger, and was startled to discover that Blair's features were exotic. For the role he was playing tonight, he'd somehow called forth remarkable beauty.
   [Jesus, Blair ... if you can do that, why don't you do it all the time?]
   Well, why should he, if could just be himself and get most of the women he took a liking to? This other thing was probably too much like work. Jim sat down at a small table and shut his eyes.
   [Be yourself, Blair. I have a strange feeling and I can't stand this place and the last thing I need is you being weird. Or not weird. Or whatever is weird for you.]
   Jim concentrated on scent and hearing, trying to find anything abnormal. He picked out several controlled substances and astonishing amounts of hair dye, but nothing that said "vampire". As if he had any idea what a vampire smelled or sounded like. At least he knew it wasn't another Sentinel. That he had experience with. The chair beside him was pulled back, and Jim winced.
   "Headache?"a sympathetic female voice asked.
   "Uh ... yeah." Jim opened his eyes. Black hair, black fingernails, black lips ... he wondered what she'd do if he offered to buy her a bar of soap. Probably misunderstand.
   "You're after something," she observed. "Very focused."
   Jim was about to ask if she knew anyone with extraordinary hearing when she went on. "Passion can wear you down." Jim looked around the room. Blair and Tom were at opposite ends, asking questions. Vampire hunting. As Blair had pointed out, none of this was technically Jim's job. He relaxed a little.
   "Passion?"
   "Comes off you in waves. I can almost see it. And I understand."
   "Right now," Jim told her, "my passion is for going home."
   She didn't seem fazed by his flippancy. "Could be," she said seriously. "Passion can be for anything. I knew a man who had a passion for sleeping. My passion ... I'm not permitted to say."
   Just for practice, Jim checked her vital signs. She seemed excited about something, though no pheromones were in play ... but otherwise, perfectly normal. "Blood?" he asked, curious about her response. She smiled, revealing fangs over her eyeteeth which might almost look real to anyone else's eyes.
   "We were talking about you."
   Jim was scanning the room now, sending his senses back and forth. His uneasy feeling increased. "No," he said. "We weren't." "We were talking about hunger. That's what passion is. Unmanageable hunger. You feed it, when you can, but it just keeps eating you." God, something about this room, something in this room was definitely wrong. Felt wrong. Where was Blair? In that corner, still. Still so strange ... but perfectly safe. It was safe to close his eyes
  -- and reach out. Overheated air, moving over his skin in waves as people moved and spoke and breathed. The problem was here, in this. So many people and so much heat. These many people and this much heat.
   [Not enough.]
   Jim sat straighter, his eyes still shut. Not enough. What did that mean?
   [How many people? How much heat?]
   Not enough? His sense of touch was desperate now, looking for the coldness in the crowd. He might zone-out, was dangerously near it, but Blair was here. He wasn't afraid. And he was cold, suddenly, so damned cold he thought he'd never stop shaking.
   [Found him. Found him.]
   A hand was fire on his arm. A voice was thunder in his ear. "Feed the beast." Without thought, he swatted her away. His eyes opened, found a door closing on cold night air. Blair wasn't in the corner anymore. "Goddamn it!" There was nothing of consequence between him and that door. Nothing to slow him down. In the alleyway, not ten feet from the door, Blair was in the cold thing's arms, head thrown back as white points worried the red pool on his neck. His eyes were half-shut, lashes beating like wings against his pale skin. Such a lover's pose, if not for the pool of red, and for a crazy moment Jim thought the girl's words were still echoing out here, making their last lazy bounce between dirty brick walls.
   [Passion ...]
   Jim threw himself forward, without considering what would happen next. He was going to take Blair away from that thing, somehow. He was unprepared for the strength that met him, or the speed. More than by the blow of hitting the alley wall, he was unmanned by the casual way in which he had been thrown. Blair moaned softly. The scent of arousal was everywhere, much too sweet. His back arched to drive him forward. His heart was speeding blood to the monster's throat. Jim forced himself to stand, gripping the wall. He took a step forward ... And the monster screamed. It crumbled, fell away before Jim's eyes, `til Blair lay on the ground surrounded by a powder, fine as talc. Beyond him, toward the street, a heart was beating with the slowness of sleep. Jim looked up into perfectly clear green eyes. A man of about Blair's age was watching them both. He was china- pretty and small, but something about him made Jim want to cut and run. "Waste of my time, what I've done," he said with a voice unpracticed in speech, "Didn't do this for you to let him die." Jim moved to Blair. A crowd was spilling into the alley as Jim lifted Blair to rest against his shoulder. "Chief?" No answer. He hadn't expected one. "You. Green hair, black dress. Yes, you. Call an ambulance."She didn't move. God, civilians were terrible in emergencies. "Do it now!" She went. Jim returned his attention to Blair. In spite of his weak heartbeat, he was tense, trembling. Jim realized with a shock that Blair was still caught in that thing's spell. He pulled Blair desperately close and ran a hand down his hair. Blair moved against him once, violently, and was still. Jim brushed his lips against the top of Blair's head. "There. Now rest." What kind of creature could create such intense desire from the feel of life draining away? Jim was still thinking about that when the ambulance arrived.

*****
Whenever we experience death at close quarters, nature sends all these little messages down our body. They say "Death is all around, death is rampant. Make more babies, make more babies."Does that make you feel better?
  -Fitz, To Say I Love You
*****

   "You can't deny that I was right about the travel medical insurance. `What's going to happen on a three day trip?' you said. And I said, `Knowing you, Sandburg ...'" Jim stopped, realizing that Blair's eyes were open. "How're you feeling?" Blair opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He turned away from Jim, cheeks a dark red against his too-white skin. Jim went to the bed. "That answers my next question
  -- how much do you remember." "Not everything, actually," Blair said, his back still turned. "Nothing after he fell apart ... but that's enough."
   [Yeah ... I can get behind that.]
   Jim placed a hand on Blair's arm.
   [This can be one more thing for us never to talk about.]
   "Did you follow him to the alley?" "Yeah. But before you start yelling ..." Jim smiled. "Me? Yell?" "It wasn't exactly my idea. I *had* to follow him." He faced Jim, and Jim brushed hair from his cheek. "My god ... Jim ... there really are vampires." Jim nodded. "Apparently. Professor X is having a fit. His thesis is a mess ... and he's wondering if you're going to sue." "Just because we're American," Blair joked, light coming back into his eyes. "Ever lived in Canada?" Jim shook his head. "They have some pretty vicious ideas about
  -- never mind. Not important. Vampires ... now *that* is a closed society. That would make one hell of a doctoral thesis."Before Jim could speak, Blair grinned at him. "For someone other than me." Jim pressed his arm. "You may want to think about why no one has ever covered the topic before." Blair laughed. Jim rolled his eyes. "I used to think your ability to bounce back was a good quality. Now I just wish you'd learn." The cheerfulness dropped from Blair's face as though he had let go of a mask. "I'll be giving this some thought," he told Jim. There were dozens of nightmares in his voice, months of being afraid of the dark. Jim looked away, and Blair touched his hand. "I'm learning." His tone was light, but Jim got the message. He took to his chair again, pulled it closer to the bed. "I explained to them," he told Blair, "about how visiting hours don't apply to me." "Did they see reason?" "Yeah. I'm gonna stay here until daybreak. Then I have to take care of something." "Uh ... I have to disagree with you there. All we have to do is thank Tom for an interesting evening and *go home*." He was smiling a little, but his eyes were wary. This had definitely put a scare into him. Jim had a feeling he was going to be scared enough himself, as soon as he was actually able to believe it. He intended to put that off for as long as possible. "There's just something I want to do. After the sun comes up. That's true about vampires, right? They can't go out in the day?" "Yeah ... you ask because I'm obviously an expert." Blair shook his head. "I'm trying to tell myself that guy was just some psycho who's seen the Lost Boys, like, eighty times. I mean, he could've put me in a trance in the bar, somehow, and had me follow him outside ... but he was so fast and so strong and once the teeth were in there really wasn't any way to pretend ..." He looked exhausted. Jim moved to sit on the side of the bed. "Jim ... what does it mean if there really are monsters?" Carefully, Jim pushed him back against the pillows. "Get some sleep." Half asleep, Blair latched on to Jim's hand. "Don' go anywhere," he mumbled. Jim leaned back, getting settled. "Not tonight."
   Blair had one dream that night
  -- not a nightmare. Jim woke to a sigh in his ear, the feel of soft curls brushing his neck. He looked down to find Blair curled against his side. He lowered Blair to the pillows and watched him dream. Blair's face had that weird beauty again, animated by passion. It was hard to reconcile this with the man who'd shared a bowl of popcorn with Jim just three days earlier, watching something called "Robot Monster" and giggling like a preschooler. Jim didn't like it. "Blair ...wake up." He tilted his head back, still dreaming. His throat was an offering. He was saying something, but Jim couldn't make out words. He didn't want to. "*Blair* ... wake up, Chief." From the look in Blair's eyes when he finally did open them, he knew what he'd been saying ... and he'd sussed why Jim's hands were on his arms. He looked embarrassed ... deeply unsettled ... and not at all happy. "Sorry," he said, keeping his eyes on Jim's with an obvious exercise of will. Jim ruffled his hair and shrugged. He couldn't think of a thing to say. "I don't understand
  --" Blair stopped, tears making his voice unreliable. Jim sighed. "C'mon, Chief, don't do that ..." He tried to think of something, anything that he could say to comfort Blair. "Maybe you should try being objective." Blair stared at him. "*What?*" "You're a scientist. Maybe if you think like one, if you can make some sense of this ... pretend this is a case study, happening to someone else." Blair frowned, concentrating. "Well ... it's an involuntary reaction. People sometimes have an erotic reaction to the proximity of danger, but I
  -- the, uh, subject doesn't really have a history of that." Jim snorted. "The subject stalled on his dissertation for years because he liked the roller coaster. He once made a date from an airlift stretcher, shortly after being shot." Charmingly, Blair blushed. "The subject is telling you, this is *different*." Jim put a hand on his face. "I know. I know it is. Go on." "Well, if you want to look at the vampire as an evolved creature ..."
   [And you would ...]
   "... an advanced predator whose prey is people, you have to think they have abilities which support that. Obviously they have an ability to mesmerize ... they may use that to create an artificial arousal which incapacitates the victim."
   "Maybe they're like mosquitoes." Blair was alert, caught up in the problem. "How so?" "When a mosquito bites you, it injects an anaesthetic before it draws your blood. It's a kind of toxin, which is why you get the welt afterwards." "That," Blair said fondly, "is like you." Jim couldn't guess what that meant. "Huh?" Blair lay back and shut his eyes. "Describing desire as a toxin." "Oh." He closed his own eyes. "Well," he said sleepily, "has experience taught us anything different?" Blair didn't answer. Jim rested his head against Blair's shoulder and waited for sunrise.

*****
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby. Try to keep myself away from me.
  -Counting Crows, Perfect Blue Buildings
*****

   Luckily, Blair was still asleep when Jim left, and therefore unable to put up an argument. Jim was tired, owly, and in no mood for pointless discussions. He stood in the alley, eyes closed, trying to pick up the scent of the strange man.
   [Wonder what Blair thinks happened to the vampire. I wonder how he thinks it happened. I wonder what he'll do when it occurs to him to wonder about that.]
   There it was ... skin oil, where he'd seen the man place his hand. And he could smell it farther up the street, on a newspaper box. Jim opened his eyes, but barely saw. That scent was the only vivid thing in the world. If a car pulled out when he began to walk, if the low hum of a certain engine was behind him all the way, Jim didn't know anything about that.
   The scent grew stronger as Jim neared the university. On one street he found it nearly everywhere.
   [You live here. Where?]
   He knew the heartbeat and switched senses easily, sorting through hundreds of rhythms to find his quarry.
   [You'd be proud of me, Sandburg, if I ever told you about this. Which I won't.]
   When he finally heard it, it was unmistakable. It popped up, louder than any other sound, impossible not to hear. Ridiculously easy to follow. It became louder at a pace that exceeded Jim's footsteps, and he was unsurprised to look up and find the stranger coming his way. "This isn't important to you," he said before Jim could speak. "I'll decide what's important to me. How did you do that last night?" "Things fall apart."He spoke slowly, his tone uniform and mild. Jim wanted to shake him. "Things do not fall apart. Not like that." "They fly apart. They're desperate to get away from themselves." "What the hell *are* you?" The stranger cocked his head, like an animal. "An accelerant." Jim's head hurt. "What does that mean? How did you do that last night?" "How? I told you what everything wants." "Don't give me that mystical bullshit. How did you do it?" He leaned against a tree trunk and looked up at the leaves. Jim noticed the neighbourhood for the first time and realized he wasn't far from Tom's house. "I was born," the stranger was saying, "with green eyes ... and other things. You were born with blue eyes ... and you found me here. Tell me how. Explain it." Jim ignored that. He couldn't think of a decent response anyway, not one that didn't call for his gun. "You followed us to the club last night." "You were bright. Possibility glows." "Why did you save my friend?" The stranger smiled. "Possibility glows." He turned and started to walk away. Jim took a step to follow, but stopped himself. He couldn't force anything from this person ... and what use would he have for the things he would learn if he could? The stranger stopped a few paces away and faced Jim again. "Can't you see that nothing exists in one piece? Can't you hear the decay of sound? With your gift, you should know that separation is natural. It takes effort to hold anything together." Jim was rapidly losing patience. "What is your point?" The stranger took time to answer, so much that Jim nearly gave up and left. "The end of the world," he said finally, "happens when you don't try anymore." Jim supposed he could've watched the stranger walk back to his home, but he was pretty sure there was nothing he wanted in that house. And Blair was probably up by now. Jim turned and walked away.

*****
I thought, "How far can you coast on charm?" Pretty far, actually.
  -Dave Foley, the Kids in the Hall
*****

   "I do believe in psychic abilities," Blair was saying as Jim approached the room. "I've seen some amazing things. I'm just saying that sentinel abilities--"
   "This sentinel business is malarkey and you know it," Tom replied. Jim stopped outside the door and listened. "Like hell it is. I--" "You built an academic career on something Burton probably more or less made up
  -- and I'm not denying you're smart; you've pulled it off this far
  -- but you've just taken the first subject with abilities that approach your description and you've declared him to be a sentinel. He's a sentinel because he fits your theory. Your theory is valid because here's this sentinel. I don't know if even *you* can make that fly." "I haven't found a sentinel yet." "Bullshit. You're way too close to that cop for no good reason." "That's none of your business." "The more defensive you get, Blair, the more you try to convince me that he's your date or something, the less I am going to buy it. Tell me something
  -- do you have any idea why his senses work? Have you had him under a CAT scan? Have you had someone look at his DNA? I didn't think so. You've just indoctrinated him into this crazy religion of yours--" "Just because you can't find a clairaudient--" "I've found plenty." "I bet they're not consistent." "What does that have to do with anything?" "Unlike sentinels, psychics are never consistent. I suspect it's a defining quality. *There's* a new thesis topic for you." "Eat shit."
   "That's clever. You planning on using that at your defence?" "You can say whatever you want about my research. I know it's important. You'd be very surprised to know who has--" A nurse moved past Jim into the room, stopping the argument in its tracks. Jim followed her. "You feeling better, Sandburg?" Blair was sitting on the bed, dressed, with his backpack beside him. Apparently Tom had brought it. Jim noticed his own duffel bag sitting by the night stand. "Yeah. They said I could go anytime." Jim offered a hand to Tom, who hesitated. "It's been an interesting trip." Tom laughed and shook hands. Blair jumped down from the bed and swung the pack onto his shoulder. "Vampires," he said to Tom. Tom nodded. "Who knew?"His smile stopped. "I'm sorry about this, Blair. If I had honestly thought--" Blair waved a hand. "It was educational. Don't worry about it."He gave Tom a wicked grin. "I'm not planning to sue." Before Tom could come up with a response, Jim put a hand on Blair's back. "Come on, Chief. I'll take you home."

*****
In my sweetest dreams, I would go out for a walk-- but I don't thinkI'm ready yet.
  -The Eels, Not Ready Yet
*****

   Jim's first impulse was to pick up the entire coffee table and just dump it in Sandburg's room. Let Blair figure it out. But Blair still looked a little
   [haunted]
   tired, and Jim didn't guess it would kill him to pick up after the kid this time. Most of the mess turned out to be essays. Jim blinked at the one on top of the pile. On the first few scattered pages, so much red ink he suspected he'd feel the weight when he lifted them. Then on the fifth page, the red ink stopped entirely, except for a note along one side in Blair's almost elegant professional hand.
   [See me.]
   A bit farther down was a second note, in the quick sketchy writing Jim knew from phone messages and grocery lists.
   [Don't panic-- you're not in trouble.]
   Jim almost laughed. Blair couldn't manage to be formal long enough to mark a paper. Oh well...it was Jim's understanding that Blair was a pretty tough marker and the kids still loved him, so he must be doing something right. "Looks to me like this person *should* be in trouble," he commented as he dropped the papers on Blair's already cluttered desk. Blair glanced up from a book. "I doubt it. She's a very good student. Something's wrong. I'm just going to remind her that Rainier has counseling services, offer to listen if she wants to tell me, and give her ten days to revise and resubmit. She should have asked for a damned extension. Everybody knows I'm fair about stuff like that." Jim shrugged. "Maybe she's scared to ask you."
   Blair raised an eyebrow. His hair had nearly made good its escape from his ponytail holder, and his glasses had slid to the end of his nose. There was a faint red pattern on his cheek which matched the nap of his favourite throw blanket. "Scared. Of me. Riiight...." "I admit that's hard to believe."Jim was about to leave when he noticed the book on Blair's lap. "Jesus, Sandburg." "What?" Jim took the book from Blair's hands. "A History of Vampires in Balkan Folklore?" They'd been back from Edmonton for over two weeks and Blair hadn't shown any real signs of being marked by the experience, other than a tendency to be home by nightfall. Jim had, foolishly, assumed it was a dead issue...so to speak. Blair sighed. "You know I need to understand. It's how I deal with things." That was true. One week after Lash had nearly killed him, Jim had been astonished to find Blair reading a thick text on the motivations of serial killers. Eventually he'd realized that Blair might talk a good game about being in touch with emotions, but in practice the kid wanted to pretend that all of his problems were...hypothetical. "Okay," Jim said, sitting beside Blair on the bed. "Just as long as you aren't considering any field research." Blair gazed at him with mild annoyance. "Please."He grinned, suddenly. "Do I look like a crazy fucking person to you?" Jim laughed. "Yes. Always have" Still grinning, Blair reached over Jim to set his alarm clock. "Six a.m.? I thought your first class wasn't until ten."
   "It isn't, but I have to post these grades." That seemed like a lot of needless trouble, and Jim said so. "Why not just go down to the campus tonight, post them, and sleep in tomorrow?" The body against his side tensed. Blair's temperature rose, and his pulse quickened. Jim braced himself for a lie. "I have some stuff I should take care of tomorrow anyway."
   [Why are you lying to me, Blair?]
   Jim looked at the book in his hands, and suddenly understood. It was dark outside. "Tell you what," he offered. "I have paperwork I left at the station. Come with me and help--" "You mean do it for you," Blair corrected. "If you insist. We can stop by your office, you can post the grades, and I will buy you dinner." Blair gaped at him. "Twice in as many months? Check my pulse
  -- I think my heart may have stopped." He was relaxed again, calm. Jim relaxed against him. "Your heart stopping, that could be arranged. Or we could get that paperwork over with and go to dinner." "I'll get my coat." Jim watched him and felt nearly defeated enough to cry.
   [As if my being there made anything better. As if there was anything I could do to protect you from him. You're too smart to trust me this much, Blair.]
   He got to his feet and dropped the book into the trash can beside the bed. Sure, Blair would find it and retrieve it later...but the gesture was the important thing.
   Accidents will happen--much more frequently with him. He's never been far from trouble; trouble is a trusted friend. It's like that old expression, "All roads lead to Rome."He comes from trouble, and he's always going home.
  -John Gorka,Always Going Home
   It was two nights later when Blair called from his office to say that he'd be a little late. "That student is coming in to see me about her essay. I could put it off 'til morning, but she's probably nervous. I don't want to stress her any worse than she already obviously is." Jim had asked if she was a *cute* student; Blair had laughed and asked if Jim was trying to get set up; Jim had been informed that Blair would be home by nine, and that had been the end of it. When Jim hung up the phone, he sat and thought for a minute So casual, that phone call, after two weeks of figuratively hiding under his bed. Jim simply did not understand Blair. Then again, he remembered when he was a child, how Stephen would claim there were monsters in his closer. He'd drag their father in to take a look...and once an adult had declared that the closet was monster- free, Stephen had been content. Jim had never bought it, personally. He's always figured his dad had just missed the monster somehow. On darker nights, he'd wondered if his father might not be in cahoots with the closet thing. But Jim was a suspicious person and Blair wasn't. It could be that having Jim escort him to his office at night had banished the monsters for Blair.
   [I wish it were that easy, Sandburg.]
   Jim felt uneasy now, apprehensive, and he idly wondered if Blair might have passed his skittishness along as he invariably did his colds and flus-- the day Blair felt better was the day Jim felt sick. "Witch doctor," Jim muttered, considering whether to tease Blair about this later. Jim had tried to relax in front of the TV, but he was restless. As the evening progressed it got worse, until he thought about going to the gym to work off his nervous energy. Too much trouble, he decided, and Blair would be home soon anyhow.
   [Milk's gone off.]
   That must have been a recent development, since Jim hadn't smelled anything when he opened the fridge to get dinner. He wandered into the kitchen to investigate and found that he'd moved the milk to the counter while reaching for the remains of last night's stroganoff, and had forgotten to put it back.
   [Senile. I'm going senile.]
   He poured out the milk, sealed the carton in two plastic bags, and poured dish soap down the drain to cover some of the smell. Then he called Blair's office, intending to ask that Blair pick up milk on his way home. With every ring, Jim's restlessness grew worse. It was al little after eight. Blair might be on his way home. He might be at the photocopier, or getting the junk food he claimed not to eat from the vending machine.
   [You buying this, Ellison?]
   Jim grabbed his truck keys and headed for the door.

*****
...at an exhumation in Croydon, Spilsburg arrived at the graveside dressed in his usual immaculate manner, and when the coffin was raised, he ran his nose along it, straightened up, and said, "Arsenic, gentlemen."
  -Browne and Tullet, the Scalpel of Scotland Yard
*****

   It was just possible for Jim to see the Volvo from Blair's office. He'd seen it already, as he approached Hargrove Hall at a dead run. "I leave you alone for ten minutes, Sandburg..." Jim was not impressed with himself. He was a trained detective. He looked for missing people all the time...was even uniquely equipped to do so. He should be able to get past his personal issues and deal with this situation in a professional manner. He should not be thinking about how he had known something was wrong and done nothing. He should not be going over and over the fact that Blair's car in the parking lot and absence from his office meant that Blair had not intended to go anywhere, because that was pretty basic deduction and didn't help find anyone. Most of all, he should not be wondering exactly what he had been doing while someone came in here and stole Blair away from him. He sat down in Blair's chair and noticed that it still held some body heat. Blair couldn't have been gone very long.
   [Maybe while you were pouring out the milk.]
   The last appointment in the book was someone named Sarah Naylor, and Blair had spilled mango dressing on this book sometime in the recent past, and Jim really needed to focus. Whoever had been here last had gone to some trouble to cover their tracks. Nilodor had been sprayed in here, so recently that the spray was still damp on the desk. Which meant that someone had figured on being tracked by a sentinel, and that could not be interpreted as good. He filtered it out, and came upon a perfume. Definitely left this evening. Doing pretty well so far, considering that Blair wasn't here to guide him through it.
   [Might have been while you were dialing. Might have been that close.]
   No signs of a struggle. That could mean that someone had drugged him. Could mean that someone had fed him a convincing line, and he had followed them.
   [Could've been a vampire.]
   Whoever it was, they hadn't left anything in the way of clues. Nothing but that perfume.
   [Remember what Blair said about that thing, how it (seduced) hypnotized him? Would've been pretty easy to lead him out of here.]
   Nice perfume, actually. Something like the stuff one of Jim's dates had worn a few weeks ago, although this didn't smell quite as...expensive.
   [But that would mean a second vampire tracking us down...or that first one coming back to life.]
   Sunflowers. That was the name of it. It didn't smell a thing like real sunflowers, which didn't smell of much until they started to rot.
   [Maybe that vampire didn't really die. Maybe it was some kind of (magic) trick. The green-eyed man, he could've set the whole thing up.]
   The smell of rotting sunflowers wasn't anything you'd want to wear as a perfume.
   [He knew about your senses. Maybe he read your mind and found out where you lived. He could be a (witch doctor) psychic. What does he want?]
   Jim shook his head to clear it, and the perfume hit him hard. He opened his eyes to find a woman in her early twenties standing in front of the desk. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I was looking for Professor Sandburg." "He's not here."She didn't look like a vampire...or any other kind of kidnapper.
   [Can't rule that out. Doesn't take dancing with the supernatural for Blair to get in trouble.]
   "Oh. I've seen you before." Jim scrubbed his face, trying to get alert. "Yeah," he admitted. "Probably. I'm his roommate. You are?" "Sarah Naylor. I'm one of his students." "You're Sarah Naylor."Well, that explained the perfume-- and left him with no clues. Jim gestured for her to sit.
   "You had an appointment with Professor Sandburg this evening." "Yeah. I came back because I forgot--" "What time was your appointment?" "Quarter to eight. Where is he? Is something wrong?" It wouldn't help any to panic this girl. Jim forced himself to relax. "No, I'm just trying to figure out where he went. Did you see anyone in here after you left?" "Yeah--some Canadian guy went in as I was leaving." "Was he wearing a toque?" The girl's laugh was quick, and a little harsh, as though she was surprised to be amused. She did look as if something were bothering her. "No. No toque. He had a Canadian flag sticker on his backpack, and a baggage ticket." "You're observant."Jim was starting to see why Blair had tried to accommodate this student. She shrugged. "I'm going to start field studies next semester." "Okay. Here's some more practice for you. What did he look like?" "Are you a cop? Someone said--" Jim wanted to bark at her, instruct her to answer the damned question, but he'd seen Blair with students enough to know that he really would get better results with honey. "Right now I'm just a guy looking for my roommate. That's all. Did you get a good look at the Canadian?" "You don't sound like nothing's wrong." Jim noticed his hands running over the surface of Blair's desk, from one end to the other and back again. He told them to stop. "Ms. Naylor, I'm a cop. I have sort of a dark view of the world. I worry when people are late for appointments, even when it's your highly distractible prof. It drives Blair crazy. Would you be willing to humour me, and just tell me what this guy looked like?"
   She smiled with obvious warmth. Jim didn't understand it, but he wasn't about to kick. "Sure. He was quite a bit taller than me, short dark hair-- almost as short as yours. Late twenties, probably. He had brown eyes and a leather jacket and jeans and dock shoes. Glasses, plastic rimmed. I think...I bet he wears contacts usually, because his jacket and backpack looked pricey, and his glasses looked cheap. Clean shaven. Well-built. Pretty average actually." Jim grabbed a pen from some weird piece of pottery and was surprised by the heft.
   [Expensive. Who gave this to you?]
   "If I can get your number, just in case we need to have a drawing made up..."The smile left Sarah Naylor's face, and Jim forced himself to relax. "Again, this is just to humour me." She looked uncertain, but she gave him her number. "Anything else?" Jim shook his head. She stood. "Your friend," she said gently, "is a very sweet guy." She didn't look happy, and Jim realized he hadn't fooled her at all. "He gave me an extension on this paper, and I--I really needed it. I have to resubmit in ten days. He's gonna be here, right?" Jim wished he were about anywhere else. "If there is a problem, it'll have my full attention." "I can see that. Okay." She took a deep breath, said "okay" one more time, and left. Directionless, unnerved and plagued by ridiculous thought about mythical creatures, Jim picked up the phone.

*****
The definition of an asshole is a guy who doesn't believe what he's seeing. And you can quote me.
  -Richard Ginelli, Thinner
*****

   "I'll grant you this is not like him," Simon offered. "God knows he has his faults, but I doubt he would leave this way, without telling you, after three years of experience."
   "He wouldn't." Simon had come down to Blair's office after an argument so weak that Jim wondered why he'd even bothered. Now they faced each other across Blair's desk, Simon clearly itching for a cigar and restraining himself in deference to Blair's "no smoking in my office ever; I don't care *who* you are" rule.
   "You've gone over the office?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "Any point in my sending forensics in?"
   "I don't think so." Simon nodded.
   "I imagine you went over things pretty closely. All right."He leaned forward. "You don't seem too surprised by this. What are you not telling me?"
   "Someone sprayed Nilodor in here to cover their tracks."
   "Jesus. You think somebody *knows* about you?"
   "I think that's pretty obvious." Simon frowned.
   "Could it be Brackett?" Jim hadn't even considered that.
   "Could be ... maybe ... but he would want me to know it was him."
   "Besides which, you have another theory in mind."
   "I -- yeah, I do. But it wouldn't hurt to check the phone record for the past few days."
   "I'll have that done. Now, talk." Jim talked. He opened the bag and spilled everything, from the gun at the U of A to the powderfied vampire to his talk with the green-eyed man. To his credit, Simon said nothing until Jim was through. Then he simply said,
   "Are you sure about this?" Jim shut his eyes and bowed his head.
   "I've spent the past two weeks trying to convince myself that it was some kind of hallucination or dream."
   "And?" He met Simon's eyes.
   "I can't do it. I know what happened was real. I fell like I've known all my life. We haven't talked about it, but I can tell Blair's the same way." Simon began to root through his coat pockets, produced a bottle of Tylenol.
   "I swear I never used to get headaches like this." Under better circumstances, Jim would have enjoyed that performance. Once the pills were down, Simon gave Jim a look which was both accusatory and peevish.
   "What do you want me to say, Jim?" Jim didn't know. He hadn't known, himself, how certain he was of what he happened in Edmonton. Not until he heard himself admitting it to Simon.
   "I find it hard to believe," Simon went on. "It's goddamned crazy. Vampires? If I'd heard this story three years ago, I would've had you committed. If I'd heard it three months ago, I would've suggested that you take a vacation. Now, I
  --" He stopped, giving them both a few moments to consider the events which had changed his point of view. They had never discussed this, and they weren't about to start. Simon got to his feet.
   "I'm going to treat this as a missing person's case, with the suspicion of foul play. Major Crimes will investigate in a conventional manner. You are going to be off following a lead on your own, and officially I don't know anything more about it." Jim nodded.
   "Thanks, Simon." Simon sighed.
   "This kid is no end of trouble."
   "He's basically worth it."
   "I know," Simon stopped in the doorway. "Where are you going? back to Canada?"
   "Yeah."Something was screaming at Jim, telling him to go to Edmonton...and at this point, instinct was about all he had.
   "Keep me informed." There was no question but that Simon was distracted-- he was nearly to the front doors before he remembered to light up a cigar.

*****
I stand alone and watch the clock. I only wait for it to stop. The doors are shut and all the windows lock. The only sound is from the clock. I sit and wait alone in my room. (deliver us from evil)
  -Yaz, In My Room
*****

   Jim had waited for a morning flight, on the wild hope that Blair would come home during the night and make the trip unnecessary. There had been a time in the recent past when Jim had thought he wanted silence, but he'd learned his lesson. He did not need to have it driven into him again and again.
   [Okay, Sandburg? Deal? You come home and stay home and don't do this anymore.]
   But Blair didn't come home, so Jim sat with grainy eyes and prickly skin in a viciously silent loft until morning.

*****
You wouldn't be lying to me would you, Agent Scully?
  -Skinner, Tooms
*****

   "I'm sorry. I can tell you're upset, but I think you're barking up the wrong tree." [I think you're lying.] "I mean, even if something did get a line on him while he was here, how would it follow him to Cascade?"
   [You knew where he was from.]
   "You're a cop; he's involved in dangerous stuff all the time...don't you think it's a little far-fetched to assume his disappearance has anything to do with one bad experience in Edmonton? Why don't you look around there, and if--"
   "I'm not in Cascade."
   "You're...where are you calling from?"
   [You sound nervous, Professor X.]
   "The psychology grad students' lounge." Jim had gone to Tom Maranchuk's office because it seemed like a reasonable place to start, and when he found it locked he'd decided to call Tom's house. It wasn't until he heard the quickening of Tom's pulse and tension in his voice at the mention of Blair's disappearance that Jim had even considered the possibility that Tom might be involved.
   "You-you came back to Edmonton?"
   "Apparently."
   "Okay, look...just stay there, and I'll come meet you."
   "Right."Jim hung up and headed for Tom Maranchuk's house.

Concluded in part two.

Link to text version of part two: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=drama6/conspirare.html