A/N: I'm back again! This time with a crossover and not any original characters. This is purely fanservice for myself, as a fan of both Lost Girl and Rizzoli and Isles, and any fans that feel the same. I don't know which ships I'm going to include besides Rizzles, if I do include any at all. I just really want them all to meet and solve crimes and be hot together, lol. I'm not quite sure how long this will be, but I do have a story arc/outline pretty much all planned out. Enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think! People can tell you that I try my hardest to always respond to reviews that aren't anon, and I never turn anon off, despite some of the wacky things that can happen on this site. I do really love to hear from you guys. So, without anymore rambling from me, let's all have some fun with this story. :)
The time-place between Earth and Valhalla, wonky and weird as it was, proved to be the homey-est place Tamsin had known in all of her many lives. While she did not necessarily conform to every aspect of the job description, the title of Valkyrie came with certain truths: you were always a guide, you were always a wanderer. When you shouldered heroes from the battlefield to the promised land, there existed no real room for your own settling down, or your own contentment. You drifted wherever Odin sent, and the familiarity of the murky travel in this mid-world felt the closest to... routine as she would get, at least before she herself returned to Valhalla for good.
Which, in all likelihood, would be soon. She had her wings now. This signaled the beginning of the last of her lives. Mostly, she resembled herself as she had always been: blondwhite hair, polar-Viking eyes, lean, tall, and well-muscled. Now, however, when faced with danger or a directive, she unfurled beastly feathered wings – white, twelve feet from tip to tip. They allowed her ease of access to fallen bodies across the world. For each one to which her master summoned her, she needed only to reveal those wings in her human form, and flap them once or twice to get to that space and one dimension over, where their soul awaited her to escort them to their own long-due celebration in the great hall.
She really could fly anywhere, at any moment. She boasted over a thousand years' experience; she'd ushered through more warriors than she could ever hope to remember. Thus, her recent situation puzzled her: ever since she was relocated to Toronto by the Dark Fae, the calls for her services had been few and far between. She sensed the demise of great leaders and vicious fighters all over the globe, but only ever took home those within what she considered to be walking distance. Did she piss off Odin? She wondered, but dared not ask. He wasn't really the type of guy you stopped to interrogate. She did know one thing, though: he wasn't using one of his oldest and most powerful Valkyries to the best of her ability. She still found herself not only compelled, but intrigued, by the people she picked up, however. Humans and fae alike never ceased to amaze her in their bravery, and also stupidity. Many died facing odds that would petrify lesser souls, but many also ran full into their deaths, guns ablaze, so to speak, when strategy might have extended their earthly life. Nevertheless, Odin had a special place in his heart for these, and the backstory of all of them kept her interest, even when she'd thought she'd heard everything.
She had never, however, heard gossip quite like that she'd encountered in recent weeks among her fellow soul collectors. A new warrior was to die quite soon. Here in the dank, damp soul dimension above Boston, she supposed she would finally see what had the hens squawking. They never knew the gender, or the age, or the general background of their beloved warriors, warm in their hearts (they did move heaven and hell for these people after all), but how many times had she heard words like handsome, brash, and human hurricane in the past seven days? They didn't learn their names until seeing them for the first time, when Odin would send the information to them, but Acacia, her mentor, had even said magnanimous in the Latin sense, great-souled, and licked her lips, swayed her hips, wiggled her eyebrows.
Valkyries had the ability to sense coming directives, and those that she knew, her sisters, had started to pine over this one. It occurred once every so often: a particularly larger-than-life hero would be predicted to die in battle, and they would scramble to see who had the honor of picking them up. She usually abstained from themerriment, but this time was different. She couldn't help but feel a little curious as she started to feel the hero's lifeforce call to her, too. But then it intensified. She smelled them wherever she walked, sandalwood and lavender in places there should be none, at Dyson's, her partner's, desk, or in Bo's arms, Bo, the succubus who wrapped herself in a gardenia perfume. She heard the gunshot that would bring them down – at a restaurant, in Dr. Lauren Lewis' lab as she had the doc stitch up her latest scrape, before she'd lay her head down to sleep.
It all crept into her life at once, and then she knew: she would be the one to escort this warrior to the other side. So, here she was, wings out as she walked, traversing the dark and hollow passage to Valhalla. The place itself reeked of freshly spilled blood and gunpowder – the fatal wound a rippling bullet through the gut, no doubt. The stench clawed at her nostrils and crept up under her tongue, and then she saw the body.
Lying down, face up, immaculate clothes and skin despite the smell – the sure sign of fresh death. Tamsin's eyes crinkled in pity. A woman, mid thirties by the looks of it. She saw the badge slung about her neck and immediately felt a pang of emotion: Boston Homicide. The Valkyrie's human job was the same, a homicide detective in Toronto moonlighting as an investigator of all things fae, or what humans called supernatural. Too young, Tamsin thought, too young to be meeting me here. We should have met on the other side. They were always too young as far as her life went, being over a millenium old, but this one? She felt the waste. Her sisters in arms had bragged and fawned over her, but the woman only looked small, lifeless and cold. Pale in the nonlight of their surroundings, quiet enough for the Valkyrie to hear the faint lap of water not far off.
But then it happened.
Obsidian eyes shot open. Lungs, silent for too long, ballooned, bursting against her chest in a force that only consciousness could manage. Each subsequent breath, post-death as they were, returned color to her limbs. Blood suffused muscles and skin with bronze and suddenly Tamsin fucking got it. The woman's raven hair, wild against the foggy ground and against her jagged face, feminized her, sovreignized her.
"... Jane," Tamsin breathed out, thankful the something came to her in that moment, even if it was bestowed upon her by someone else.
Jane, Boston Homicide detective, focused her pupils at the sound of her name. She saw Tamsin, jumped, caught between scooting far away and being far too afraid to move. "S...s.. Santa Lucia?" she choked, hoping against hope that the winged woman kneeling before her was in fact the benevolent figure of her childhood.
The blonde exhaled with a chuckle at the question. Still human. Impressive so far, handsome most definitely, but still human. "Not quite. But we can see her if you'd like. You only need to come with me, Warrior," for all her crassness in Toronto, a bit of the formality of the spirit world always bled through at the collection.
"Then, who are you?" Jane inquired. Her body tensed; she winced when Tamsin stood.
"Name's Tamsin. I'm a Valkyrie. I'm here to take you to Valhalla," she said simply. Jane surveyed her, sighed, then took her outstretched hand.