10

CHAPTER 2

Bald Knob, Arkansas

Dean Winchester, fought the desire to stick his fingers in the collar of his dress shirt and loosen the tie cinched around his neck. He hated suits and ties made him feel like he had a noose around his neck. But if you were going to pretend to be an FBI agent you had to look the part.

This was the third state the brothers had stopped in, in three days. So far, they had found five victims of Ahriman and not a clue as to what the hell was going on. Headless bodies didn't account for all of the victims. So far only three had been headless, they'd found out there were victims who had been allowed to keep their heads but were still just as dead, with Ahriman's named hacked into their flesh. Things just kept getting weirder and weirder. Bald Knob, puns that begged to be said aside, wasn't even a blip on the map. There were only three thousand residents and nothing else odd had happened here save murders and the electric storm. It had been the same in Rifle, Colorado and Sapula, Oklahoma. Nothing made sense.

"So, the second victim was Angie Clark?" Sam asked the coroner/president of the hospital board of directors/family doctor. God, small towns were so... small. Dean was still keeping himself from pulling at his collar and looking at the body of the first victim for clues.

"Yeah, she was such a sweet girl. Never hurt a fly," answered the aged man in a white lab coat. His hair had long ago gone snow white, his face was lined with the pain and joy of life, and faded blue eyes looked back sorrowfully at Sam through a pair of thick glasses that had gone out of fashion twenty years ago.

"You knew the victim?" Sam pushed gently. The Doctor rubbed his head, making his white hair stand on end like a mad scientist.

"This is a small town Agent Waters. Everybody knows everybody."

"Did Angie have any enemies? Anything like that?" Sam asked. The doctor looked at him askance.

"No, she was a waitress. Everybody loved her."

Sam frowned, this wasn't the first time they'd gotten a similar story, seemed half the victims had no connection to anything that should have gotten them killed like this. This was just bizarre.

"I'm sorry doctor, but I have to ask. We want to be thorough with our investigation."

"Of course. We're all just a little shaken by this, this kind of thing just doesn't happen here." The doctor excused.

"And the first victim, who's he?" Dean asked as he lifted the sheet covering the first body higher and peered at the grotesque remains beneath. Whoever it had been, now the man's head was sitting in a tray, eyes staring blankly, neatly severed from the mutilated body. 'Ahriman' had been slashed across his torso in a diagonal line like some perverse Zorro wanna be had decided to make his fantasies real. Angie Clark had the name etched across her chest but it looked more like someone had decided to carve a name into wood, she, unlike the first victim, still had her head attached. This demon was sick, not that it came as a surprise. Dean knew all about how sick demons could be, more than he ever wanted to.

"We don't know. His driver's license says his name was Robert Malcolm, so does his social security card but his social security number belongs to a child by the same name, who died at birth, forty years ago," the doctor answered with a lost shrug. This was so far outside his field of expertise he was practically drowning.

"Identity theft maybe? Guy looks like he'd have been about that age." Sam suggested looking at Dean for his opinion. Dean shrugged and gave his brother an exasperated glance.

"Don't know. No one around here knows him though." The doctor said.

This wasn't, again, the first headless victim that hadn't been who they appeared to be. Two others had had shady aliases as well and no one in town had known who they were. Dean rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.

"And the first victim was found the same day as the second, on opposite sides of town?" Dean asked.

"Yes. It all seems so random," the doctor said sadly.

"Yeah, yeah it does. Tell me something, the word cut into Angie and headless Bob, was that done before or after they died?" Dean asked. The doctor looked nauseous and Dean didn't have to hear the answer. He'd been right, they'd been turned into living graffiti walls while they were still alive. He winced in sympathy for the girl and the poor bastard who'd been beheaded. "

"Well Dr. Johnson. We really appreciate you speaking with us. We'll contact you if we learn anything more," Sam said and he and Dean turned to go.

"Agent Reznor, please... catch whoever did this," the doctor pleaded to Dean. Dean turned to look back at him and the elderly doctor suddenly looked ancient, weighed down by the horror of the murders, murders that made no sense.

Dean felt for the old man, oblivious to what was going on around him and Dean couldn't tell him. He couldn't tell the old man that all the monsters that lurked in the dark places of his nightmares were real, that angels and demons were waging a war that would result in the apocalypse if Dean didn't stop it. Not that Dean knew what was going on here any better than the doctor did. At least he did know what ever had killed these people, if it really was a demon and Dean was beginning to wonder, wasn't human. He couldn't even give the old doctor the solace of that, tell the old guy that he wasn't losing his mind.

"We will," Dean assured him with a fierce look of determination.

###

Erin's terror almost made her turn and bolt for the back stairs that led up to her apartment and out into the alley behind the building. She was staring into the face of Tiberius Trajan. A fellow immortal and a certified psycho. When he'd been alive he'd fancied himself a god among men. Someone resurrected to rule over puny mortals and immortals alike. As far as he was concerned, he was her god. As far as she was concerned, he was hell in a human body.

Ireland, 82 AD

Erin, who'd been called Éireann then, sighed in the warm comfort of the furs laid beneath her as flames flickered in the fire pit nearby and curled closer to the body next to her. Her love, Alexander Aurelius, a Roman solider who'd defected during Rome's excursions into Hibernia because he'd fallen in love with a Celt and she with him, shifted so his body fit more closely to hers and wrapped his battle hardened arms around her. Inside the tent, the flames glinted off his armor and weapons, freshly polished and repaired for battle. Beside them lay her weapons, less ornate but just as deadly. Erin nuzzled into Alexander's chest and he gently lifted her chin. His bright blue eyes sparkled at her from beneath the fringe of his blonde hair.

"We have eaten," he said, leaning in and sensuously nibbling his way up the side of her neck. Erin moaned softly. She could feel his lips form a smile against her skin as he kept going.

"We have drunk," he teased, moving to her lips and kissing her lingeringly.

"We have certainly been merry," he continued, pushing a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, then leaned in to whisper into it.

"What else shall we do? For tomorrow we die."

Erin pulled back from him and frowned, "Don't say that Alexander."

He brushed her off by smiling at her and teasing, "Best not to take any chances though. Wouldn't you say?" To illustrate his point he cupped her buttocks in his hand and pinched playfully. Despite herself, Erin laughed at his antics. Then his face grew serious, "By dawn the legion will have reached the line. Then the battle will begin. You know we might all fall."

"I know," Erin said softly. Alexander sighed. Not wishing to ruin what might be their last night together, he pulled her atop him, smiling again for her. He knew she was doing the same thing for him. Neither doubted the danger morning would bring with it, but for now, they had each other.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," she answered.

A sudden scream in the camp and the clang of bells jerked them violently from their moment of joy. The single screamed turned into many and Alexander and Erin leapt to their feet, throwing on clothing and armor, grabbing weapons and rushing out into the night. Before them was madness, fire swept the east side of their encampment, people fled from the advancing flames and through the flames arrows flew, striking down unarmed men, women and children in their tracks. The Roman legion set on invading what would one day be called Ireland, had made it here much earlier than expected. They'd been ambushed.

Without a moment's hesitation, Alexander and Erin leapt into the fray as the first soldiers broke through the line of fire. The fighting was so fierce, the Roman legion so many more than their own small throng of fighters, the two soon were parted. During a split second break in fighting, as her latest opponent fell to the ground at her feet, Erin spotted Alexander on a small rise. The light from the fire cast him in a golden glow like one of his beloved avenging angels, his sword crossed with a man, who could only be the legion's general and though Erin didn't know it at the time, Tiberius Trajan. Even then he'd looked like one of Alexander's demons, for Erin was not a Christian, she was a Druid. Alexander was. For that alone he'd risked death at the hands of his own people, defecting to be with and fight beside, the pagan Celt he'd come to love made him an even worse traitor.

Alexander's foot slipped and Trajan took the opening, thrusting his sword down into Alexander's gut and impaling him. Alexander collapsed to his knees, hands around the blade. Erin screamed Alexander's name in anguish and fought to reach him. Even as she struggled to get to him, he pulled the blade from his body and tried to plunge it into Trajan, but he was too weak. His body succumbed to the fatal wound and Alexander crumpled into a heap.

Erin reached them only a second later, enraged and bereft, she flung herself at Trajan. He'd flicked off her advances as if she were a nat buzzing about his head and Erin was an accomplished fighter. Trajan was better. He was better than any swordsmen she'd ever seen. Erin got in one lucky blow, whirling in and striking him across the back of the knees, hamstringing him. Trajan looked shocked as his legs went out from under him.

Erin, heedless of the battle around her or her own safety, rushed to Alexander's side and pulled his limp form into her arms. He was already gone. Tears flooded her eyes as she clutched him to her.

"No, Alexander. Don't leave me. Alexander!" she pleaded, grief stricken. It made her so blind she didn't notice Trajan was, impossibly, back on his feet. He stepped forward and without a thought, plunged his blade through her back, severing her spine.

Erin couldn't even gasp, silently she choked, loosing her grip on Alexander. Trajan hauled back her head by her hair and laughed into her ear as she died, "You belong to me now. My little sparrow." Then she knew nothing.

"Don't look so shocked dear. Didn't I always say you belonged to me? You didn't think it would be that easy to get away from me did you?" Trajan said, pulling Erin back to the present. Erin backed up a pace and Trajan stepped into it. She swung for him with her sword, doing the only thing she knew to do. She fought. The blade passed through him like he wasn't there.

Erin felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. Unconsciously she backed away in fear, how could she fight what she couldn't even hit? "You aren't real. You're dead. I killed you!"

"Yes, you did. But I assure you I'm real enough to teach you one last lesson," Trajan smirked, casually following in her wake, shutting the shop door behind him and locking it. Erin couldn't take it, she knew what his lessons included, torture. She'd suffered five hundred years of it. Refusing to bend and break made his torture methods...creative. Not even a normal person's worst nightmares could begin to match the things he had done. The horror movie industry had nothing on Tiberius Trajan.

Erin turned and ran for the back stairs, if she could get out of the shop and on to holy ground, she'd be safe. She almost made it to the stairs and the back exit, when Trajan just appeared without warning in front of her. Erin backed up in horror.

"Going somewhere?" he asked calmly. Erin turned to run back the way she'd come, but Trajan grabbed her. Shoving her into the wall and thrusting open the door into the storeroom. He smiled evilly and his eyes flashed demonic red.

"Class time."

###

Between the Lines Rare and Antique Books lay quiet as a grave. Nothing but the tick of a clock on the wall behind the counter could be heard. The door to the storeroom stood open. Trajan was gone. Inside the storeroom lay the remains of several display cases. Antique books that had existed for centuries where torn to bits and scattered like priceless confetti all over. Splintered wood, twisted metal and shattered glass was scattered everywhere and amid the wreckage laid Erin, clothing torn to shreds, covered in blood, staring dead eyed at the ceiling.

Suddenly, she uttered a painful gasp and rolled onto her side as life returned to her. She curled into a ball, coughing and trying to rise to her feet. Coming back was never pleasant, but Trajan had done so much damage to her body it was particularly painful this time. Though whole in body, she was still weak. In spirit... she didn't want to think about that right now. She already felt like she'd lost her mind, that would send her completely over the edge.

Erin struggled to her feet and stumbled out of the storeroom. She needed to make a phone call, right now. Methos had been right. It had to be Ahriman, Trajan had been dead for over a thousand years. There was no way he could have been real. But, if Ahriman was possessing Christian as Methos assumed. How had he made Trajan become flesh and blood, here and now? What the hell was going on?

Making her way across the shop toward her office, she fell down into the chair at her desk and picked up the phone. She dialed Methos's number and waited.

"Hello?" said a gruff voice on the other end, which did not belong to the ancient immortal. Erin's brow furrowed.

"Joe?" Erin asked, befuddled. Why was Joe Dawson, retired member of a secret society called The Watchers, who knew about immortals and recorded their lives but never got involved in their affairs (With the sole exception of Joe. He involved himself in whatever the hell he felt like involving himself in and hang the rules), answering Methos's calls?

"Erin is that you? Hey how's it going?" Joe asked perfectly jovial. Erin blinked and tried to think of how to answer that.

"I've had better days. Why are you answering Methos's phone?"

"Oh, he had to go out of town for a few days. He had his calls forwarded to me." Joe explained.

Erin sighed wearily, "Great."

She knew where Methos was going out of town to. Here. What she didn't know was if he was coming because he'd decided to help or because he'd decided to take care of the problem himself. Either way, no matter what it was Christian was suffering from, demon possession or dark quickening, the last thing she'd let Methos do is kill him. She'd kill Methos first if she had to or die trying. She wouldn't like it, she'd always had a love/hate relationship with the elder immortal, but she would. Christian was the closest thing she had to a brother, save Duncan. She'd kill who ever she had to, to protect either of them. Problem was, Methos would do the same to protect Duncan and if their methods of protection didn't coincide, if one of them saw the other as a threat, they would try to kill the other.

"Something wrong?" Joe asked concerned. Erin took a moment to look down at herself and consider the ludicrous nature of what was going on. She was sitting blood soaked in her office chair, on the phone with one of the few mortals that knew what the immortals were, about to ask for help...killing a demon. You just couldn't make this stuff up.

"Yeah, I'm losing my mind, the dead are walking and I'm going to have to re-carpet the store room," Erin mumbled in answer to Joe's question.

"Say again?" Joe asked.

"Nothing," Erin said brushing it off, "Listen this is going to sounds nuts but, uh, you don't happen to know how to off a demon do you?"