Only Rossi noticed the old woman's lingering focus on Hotch.

Her eyes were unreadable, but in the shadowed room their glint tracked the Unit Chief. Dave couldn't be sure, but she might have shuddered.

Shrugging, he dismissed the observation. A man in a suit, dress shirt and tie did look out of place in this space that reeked of incense and looked as though it could be home to a certain fringe element that might not welcome someone who appeared as law abiding as Hotch. Rossi wondered where the brief whiff of sun-ripened tomatoes and herbs that had reminded him so much of his mother had come from, though. Probably a restaurant nearby, or Madame What's-Her-Name had Italian for dinner.

He pushed Hotch deeper into the room and turned his attention to Garcia. She seemed to be the one most at home in this type of establishment. Plus, her enthusiasm for this adventure was visibly increasing. Arms gesturing and jewelry flashing, the tech analyst made an amusing counterpart to the slightly more subdued, but still flamboyant presence of the fortune teller. No. Not fortune teller, Rossi reminded himself. Not sure what the lady does, but I bet it's just as, uh…reputable as fortune telling.

"So, can we listen in or do you have to have just the person you're reading in the room, so, you know, you can focus and feel and channel them? 'Cause I'd really like to hear about everyone's past life, but, you know, I don't wanna…"

"Enough!" The Sobrani raised an arm, palm toward Garcia, arresting her tirade midstream. Quivering with the effort of holding in the words that were piling up behind her hot pink lips, Penelope held very still, hoping she hadn't offended the delicate sensibilities of this occult artiste.

Without deigning to address any of the techie's concerns, Madame lowered her arm, converting the gesture into one that invited this jittery, glittery woman before her to take a seat. Once Garcia had, the Sobrani leaned toward her client. "In here, it is wiser to remain silent. Wiser to listen." Penelope gave a vigorous nod, keeping her lips pressed together to show she could embody the wisdom of silence.

"Now." The woman studied Garcia. "Your friends may remain, if you wish…But once we begin, no one may leave. They stay together…" One side of her mouth quirked upward. "…like a family…"

They wouldn't admit it, but a collective shiver traversed the spines of the BAU team.

No one mentioned the phrase they'd used out on the street before they'd entered the shop. It was as though by ignoring it, they could deny the sensation that this woman already possessed some sort of eerie inside knowledge about them all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Garcia sat at attention, her breath coming in short puffs. Eyes wide. Heart pounding with anticipation.

The rest of the team had stepped back, taking up positions along the heavily-shadowed walls. Hotch moved into the darkest area he could find, partially shielding himself behind Rossi and Morgan. The scent that had raised his hackles when he'd entered the building was gone, but some deep instinct made him feel wary and restless.

He stole surreptitious, dark glances at his coworkers, wondering if he was the only one on edge.

"We begin." The Madame made the announcement in a commanding tone. Everyone understood that attentive quiet was expected of them. No whispered conversations. No sarcastic jibes or skeptical snorts.

The Sobrani's posture stiffened. She leaned toward her subject, hooded eyes narrowing.

Garcia swallowed; the sound audible in the hushed, increasingly tense atmosphere. More than one of her teammates thought of a sparrow caught in the mesmerizing gaze of a serpent…of an insect being overtaken, suspended in a drop of amber. Just when it seemed someone would have to break the spell…would have to clear a throat or cough or shuffle louder-than-necessary feet…the shop's proprietor emitted a low, rumbling noise from deep in her chest. Like thunder, the sound grew until it resolved itself into muttered words.

"Sssssugar…sssspice… but not always nice…" The woman's intense regard had gone glassy.

No, not glassy…clouded! Garcia shuddered. Whether a trick of the light or something else, there were misty tendrils passing over the black irises trained on her. Ghosts! It looks like ghosts moving around. Inside her eyes!? How is that possible?!

Without being aware of what she was doing, Penelope reached one hand behind and to the side. When Morgan stepped out of the shadows and grasped it in his strong, capable grip, the tech analyst took a deep, shaky breath and reminded herself that she wasn't alone. No matter what happened, she was surrounded by big, strong, brave FBI agents.

Still, she kept hold of Derek's hand.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In rumbles and mumbles interspersed with long, long pauses…the words unfolded.

Garcia wasn't sure she understood it all; nor why it felt familiar.

"Alone you have been…long ages past…a cabin…among towering trees you plied your trade. Villagers came to the woman in the woods. For bread and for special occasions…sweet cakes and cookies, pressed with sugared flowers…Weddings and feast days…

"But there were others who came for the arts worked in the dark of the moon…things…mixed with the spices…baked for special purpose. Sometimes to heal…but not always…"

The Madame's chin raised a fraction, regarding her client from a new angle. Or maybe through a new wrinkle in time.

"Purple berries, sour bread meant for the man whose fists ruled his family. Bought by his wife with bruises just as purple. But the children…so hungry…found it first…" More foggy tendrils drifted across the Sobrani's depthless eyes. "Tiny bodies laid at your door. Hate. Cries for vengeance when the mistake was theirs…not yours…

"At night they came. Stoked the fires high in your ovens. Fed you to them…. For what was done to the children, the woman who lived alone in the woods, who baked sweets and treats, was called witch….witch…witch…Your flesh baked from your bones…ashes and fragments all that remained…and hate…hate…hate…"

Garcia's eyes filled. A sob welled from her throat. Morgan's hand squeezed tighter. He pulled her from her seat and into his embrace.

"That's enough. C'mon, Baby Girl. That's enough."

Through echoes of sorrow from time immemorial, Penelope heard Prentiss's whisper.

"My God…does that remind anyone else of that old Hansel and Gretel story? Is that maybe where it came from? The grain of truth behind the fairytale? They say there's always something…"

Morgan felt iron fingers lace around his wrist. He looked down at the claw gripping him.

Her eyes were clear and sharp. No phantoms dancing through their blackness now.

"You," she rasped. "You are next…"