Chapter Seven.

The child was crying again, but his sobs were drowned out by shouts and the unmistakable whoosh of a knife slicing through air before hitting solid flesh and bone.

Crimson sprayed, painting the walls its shade, but the long blonde curls were not there. This time, a head of short, raven hair came into view. The child's wails grew louder as Merlin's dripping and mangled face came into view, his blue eyes gashed and red.

Blood poured from the wound over his heart, and more dripped from his outstretched hand towards the carpet below . . .

Arthur gasped awake. His heart was racing and his pillow was drenched in cold sweat. He ran his hand through his damp hair, trying to collect himself. When his breathing returned to normal, he scrambled out of bed and rushed for the bathroom, where he splashed cool water on his face in attempt to become more lucid.

Where had the woman gone? He still didn't understand why this nightmare was coming to him, but this had been the third time. As he studied himself in the mirror, he wondered if the killer in the dream was himself or some unseen other. He wondered who the child was.

Mostly, he wondered why the dream had changed. Why had Merlin suddenly become its subject?

He was not able to shake the feeling that something was wrong. His lizard brain was giving off a signal, a primal instinct—a need to protect. To protect Merlin. But from what?

Going back into the bedroom, he went directly for his phone and punched in Merlin's number, only subconsciously realizing the clock read half passed three in the morning. The phone rang once . . .

Twice . . .

A third time . . .

"Emrys," said a muffled, half-conscious voice on the other end. Arthur could just picture him, laying on his side, his eyes closed in the refusal to awaken while one cheek was still pressed to his pillow. Arthur let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Hello?"

"Merlin," Arthur whispered.

Suddenly, Merlin's voice became more alert, and Arthur could practically see him shoot up in bed. "Arthur? What's wrong? What is it?"

Arthur realized how silly calling Merlin so late on a whim had been. "It's—it's nothing," he tried to correct himself.

"Nothing? Well, it better be something. Arthur, it's three-thirty in the morning," said Merlin, whose voice was somewhat groggy again.

"I just wanted to make sure you're alright," Arthur admitted, sitting down heavily on the side of his bed.

"Why wouldn't I be alright, you plunker?" Merlin said, and Arthur could hear the grin in his voice.

"Nothing," Arthur insisted. "It's stupid."

"Are you sure? Because I can come over if you need me to," Merlin offered with a yawn.

Arthur found himself smiling. "No, there's no need."

There was a beat of silence where Arthur was sure Merlin had fallen back asleep, but then his voice rang through again, along with a grunt of movement and the outlying sound of rustling sheets. "I'm coming over."

"Merlin, that really isn't necessary," Arthur assured him, but there was no answer for some time. "Merlin?" he asked unsurely.

When no response was provided, he looked at his phone and realized Merlin had hung up, clearly not wanting an argument; and, close to twenty minutes later, there was his usual musical knock at the door.

"Okay, what's so urgent that you had to phone at three AM?" Merlin said with a facetious sigh as he pushed through the door and shrugged off his coat before tossing it towards a chair. He missed the target, and Arthur saw he was wearing a nightshirt and sweatpants.

"Nothing!" Arthur said. "You really didn't have to come all the way over here."

Merlin looked him dead in the eyes, his brow raised.

"Fine," Arthur conceded, folding his arms on the kitchen counter across from Merlin. "It was a . . . I had a bad dream." It was strange saying that aloud. He never thought he would admit that to another person, especially because bad dreams weren't normal for him.

However, Merlin acted as though it was nothing unusual at all. "What was it about?" he inquired with a frown.

"It wasn't about anything," Arthur snipped, realizing how ridiculous of a conversation this was. He felt like a child. "Go home, Merlin," he said from over his shoulder as he stormed back towards his room.

Merlin followed him, despite the fact that Arthur was tearing up the covers and getting beneath them. Merlin sat on the bottom of the bed, opposite Arthur's feet.

"Why'd you phone to see if I was alright?" Merlin asked in the darkness. "Was the dream about me?"

"Merlin—"

"Well, was it?"

Arthur rubbed a palm down his eyes and sat up against the headboard. "Yes," he said. "You were dead. Well, someone killed you. I—I don't know who."

Arthur couldn't stop thinking that he had been the murderer, even though he was in the position of an outsider looking in throughout the dream. He hadn't stopped the killer, and that was as bad as the act itself. Either way, Arthur was still the monster, the clawed creature prowling in the dark that he had to contain like Uther had taught him to: The beast Merlin could never know, would never understand . . .

"Well, that's normal," Merlin said, apparently trying to comfort Arthur. It made him feel even more like a little boy than before. "The work we do—We see a lot of rough things. It's bound to get to us eventually, Arthur."

"Some cases, more than others," Arthur murmured.

"Was it the Slasher?" Merlin asked at this.

"Maybe," Arthur allowed. "The wound pattern was the same, I think—but I've had this dream before. Never about you. It's always some woman. I don't know who she is: I can never get a good look at her. And there's a child; he's crying," he added, although he was not sure why.

"Arthur—" Merlin began, his voice sympathetic.

"Don't patronize me, Merlin!" Arthur interrupted. He just wanted to go back to sleep, so he shuffled beneath the blankets again and turned on his side, his back to Merlin.

He kept himself completely still, listening out for any movement, but nothing happened. Merlin couldn't sit there all night, could he?

Suddenly, he felt Merlin stand up from the bed, sure that he'd hear footsteps and the flat door close next. However, the covers were lifted up and the mattress sunk again.

"Scoot over," Merlin demanded, kicking Arthur under the sheets.

Arthur looked over his shoulder in confusion. "What the Hell do you think you're doing?"

"Well, I'm hardly going home now!" Merlin said, settling in. "Christ, Arthur, I'd like to get some sleep tonight." He grabbed a pillow from beneath him and hit Arthur on the shoulder with it. "Now, scoot!"

Arthur blinked at him. The last time they'd shared a bed, they were children. By the time he stopped blinking, Merlin had already turned over, and Arthur realized he'd just have to accept it.

"Goodnight," Merlin's quiet voice came after Arthur had rolled back over, and the tenderness behind the words broke Arthur's annoyance.

"Goodnight, Merlin."


Arthur awoke to a buzzing sound coming from his nightstand and, before he opened his eyes, he clocked a warm, soft feeling enveloping his body. When consciousness hit him and he finally realized his mobile was vibrating, he had to detangle himself from Merlin, who was hugging him like a teddy bear.

Merlin woke with a start, sitting up and looking around the room in disorientation for a moment before trying with no avail to smooth his messed up hair. His mobile was vibrating, too.

"It's dispatch," Arthur told him, reading the message. "Another body's been found."

Merlin grumbled, checking his screen for verification. In this time, Arthur looked at the clock to find it was five after six, and the sun was poking its warm morning rays into the room. Their golden hues reflected in Merlin's irises, making them look like they were on fire.

"I'll have to go back to mine for clothes," Merlin said, reluctantly getting out of bed and stretching. Arthur looked away as Merlin's shirt rode up towards his bellybutton.

"I'll meet you there."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed, getting out of bed only when he was certain Merlin was gone.

When Arthur arrived at the crime scene, which was located inside an old, seedy hotel in Norfolk Square, Merlin was already there. He was standing inside the SOCO barrier, talking with Lance, and Arthur saw uniforms trying to contain journalists, onlookers, and sorry looking hotel guests. Mithian was off to the side, questioning what looked like the hotel manager, while Percival and Leon could be seen interviewing other staff members.

Arthur peered up at the ancient building, its white exterior unkempt and off-color, and he knew at once that the Slasher could not have caused this scene. He had looked over the photo album dozens of times, but the hotel was is none of the pictures—marked or otherwise.

"Arthur," Merlin called, and Lance motioned him over to their place by the stoop.

"Gwaine is already inside with the rest of forensics," Lance told him, "but we're going to clear them out for you."

Arthur hoisted his bag further onto his shoulder and furrowed his brows. "Just for me? Lance, you shouldn't have."

He saw Merlin's lips twitch upwards, but apparently Lance was too stressed to be in the joking mood. "There's blood, Arthur—lots of it. You might want to prepare yourself."

"I think I'm okay," Arthur told him, a bit put-off by the comment. "I don't really get squeamish around blood."

"Lets hope not," Lance said curtly before stealing away, leaving Merlin and Arthur behind.

"Have you been inside yet?" Arthur asked, and Merlin nodded.

"She's really outdone herself this time," he said and, noticing the perplexed look Arthur gave him, clarified, "The Slasher."

Arthur cast another look up at the building. He was sure it hadn't been in one of the photos. Perhaps the police got it wrong: Perhaps this wasn't the Slasher's handiwork.

"You think it's her, then?" Arthur inquired casually.

"Gwaine says the wound patterns check out," Merlin told him. "And, in a place like this, I wouldn't be surprised to learn the vics were prostitutes."

"Vics? As in plural?"

No, that wasn't right. The Slasher only left one body at a time. If it were her, why would she change now? Nothing added up about this crime scene; it made Arthur pay attention. Maybe that's what she wanted.

Merlin nodded and hummed a response. "It's a double-homicide."

Before Arthur could think of a response, half a dozen people in spotless white lab coats flooded through the opened door. Gwaine brought up the rear and, as soon as he spotted Arthur, flashed a grin and shouted, "Christmas has come earlier for you, mate!" He jostled down the stoop to Merlin and Arthur's side. "Might want to suit up," he added, putting a latex gloved hand to his own lab coat, "don't want to contaminate anything."

Arthur felt anticipation rising in his gut. He couldn't take in anymore; he had to know what was inside—he had to know if it was left for him. With one last look at Merlin, he made his way to the SOCO tent and put on a lab coat, safety glasses, gloves, and shoe covers.

The handle of his kit was gripped tightly in his fist as he walked up the dark, narrow flight of stairs towards the second floor. The frayed carpeted wood creaked beneath him as he moved and, with ever step, the dragon inside his bloodstream clutched and clawed at him, willing him further on.

The room at the end of the corridor was wide open and, from a distance, Arthur couldn't immediately see anything wrong with it. Dust swirled in the morning light breaking through the blinded windows, and he could make out the dirty navy carpet and a small corner of the tartan bedding on one of the mattresses.

It felt strange, like he had somehow seen this all before. He felt déjà vu tingling in his mind, but he shook it away. It was nothing, just a fancy. He was so used to finding crime scenes from his past that he was projecting false memories onto this one. That had to be the explanation . . .

He stepped through the threshold into the room, keeping his eyes straight at first, but he quickly turned towards the two twin beds lining the wall. The dull cream-colored paint was splattered with deep red above the first bed. Thick droplets had dripped down in streams and trails, leading downward to the source: A woman laying cold and motionless beneath them, her face torn up, her eyes gone, and her blonde hair streaked with blood. There was a large hole in her chest, from which blood had long-since stopped pouring. It now soaked her blouse and the blanket below her. It looked as though all the gooey contents of her veins were on the mattress, the walls, the nightstands, the TV . . .

In the next bed lay a woman with dark hair, her sightless eyes piercing the first woman, and her mouth agape in a silent scream. Her wrists had long vertical gashes in them, each suspended off either side of the bed so that the blood created dark pools on the carpet. Her palms and fingers were stained in the same dry crimson.

Arthur found that he could not move. His wide eyes stayed fixed on the first woman, his lips parted. Even the creature inside him dared not stir.

Flashes of his dream came to mind.

A woman screaming . . .

A child crying . . .

Arthur barely registered that he dropped his kit with a dull thud.

Blood and blonde hair and bright blue eyes turned bloodshot with tears . . .

"Not in front of my son!"

Arthur felt dizzy.

A flash of silver . . .

The child was inconsolable . . .

"No! Arthur!"

Arthur couldn't breathe.

And the child kept sobbing . . .

He tried to run forward, to shield the already dead woman, but he lost balance and stumbled, falling into the still-wet pool of blood on the carpet between the beds. His lab coat, now splashed with bright red, stuck to the mess as he rolled over to his back.

Whose blood was he covered in? The first victim's, the second's, both?

Or his mother's?

The room spun around him as his mother's face came into view, screaming and terrified.

"Arthur!"

The voice wouldn't stop echoing through his head, but he could not call back to it. He felt numb as he stared up at the circling ceiling . . .

And suddenly he was running. He didn't know how he had gotten to the edge of the corridor; it seemed his legs were clumsily moving by their own volition. They carried him down the staircase, two steps at a time, and he lunged for the exit. The sunlight blinded him, and he was vaguely aware of flashing cameras and eyes on him as he stumbled down the stoop and ripped off his safety glasses. He doubled over, heaving in bouts of polluted city air in a weak attempt to clear his head.

"Arthur!" someone was shouting, and they sounded as terrified as his mother had been.

Merlin's blue eyes swam into focus, searching and wide, and his palms were hovering near Arthur's shoulders in case Arthur needed support. Merlin had the good sense not to touch him, even though it was obvious that he wanted to, as the layer of blood that lined Arthur's coat would be needed for evidence.

"What's happened to him?" Lance said from somewhere to Arthur's side.

"My god, is he alright?" Mithian wondered amongst the overwhelming chatter filling Arthur's ears.

Merlin wasn't listening to any of them. "Arthur, what's happened?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. "Arthur, talk to me . . . He needs water." Merlin turned away and shouted, "Get him some motherfucking water!"

"I just need some air," Arthur panted, his voice coming out in a rasp. No one listened to him.

"Arthur, sit down," Merlin demanded.

He felt his pulse in every inch of his body.

"No, get his coat off first!" ordered Lance. "Gwaine!"

Gloved fingers manhandled Arthur on either side as Gwaine and someone else got the gear off of him. Gwaine was saying something, but Arthur couldn't hear him. As soon as the bloody coat came off, he felt like he could breathe again—he could think. The haze had cleared.

Merlin grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards the SOCO tent. He coaxed Arthur into a chair before thrusting water into his hands. Arthur drank it in greedy gulps; he hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been.

"Are you alright?" Merlin asked again in a low voice, crouching down before Arthur's chair. "What happened in there?"

"I—"

Arthur looked around, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him.

"I don't know," he lied, crushing the plastic cup in his fist. "I just—"

"Got squeamish?" Lance interrupted, making his way into the tent. Arthur didn't know how to respond. "It's alright, Arthur."

Merlin looked more concerned than ever. Arthur wondered if he was recalling their conversation from last night.

"Do you think you're up for going back in?"

"What?" Merlin shouted before Arthur could. He sounded scandalized as he jumped to his feet. "Are you joking? He can't go back in there!"

Arthur felt his stomach lurch. He didn't want to go back inside, but Uther's training kicked in. He had to get the situation back under his control.

"No, Merlin, I'm fine," he tried. "It was just a shock. I know what I'm up against now."

Merlin looked at him helplessly. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Merlin—" Arthur began to protest but, as he stood up, he found himself wobbling slightly. Merlin sat him back down.

"He's not going back in," Merlin told Lance from over his shoulder, his voice hard and uncompromising.

Lance took in a deep breath, seeming to make up his mind. "No, he's not," he agreed. "He'll sit in the hall outside the room. Arthur, you'll talk Gwaine through it."

Arthur agreed, and he spent the rest of the morning with his back against the grubby wall of the corridor, his stomach churning each time Gwaine called for him. He responded each time by telling Gwaine to take pictures, hoping they would be adequate enough for Arthur to study later, back in the safe seclusion of his lab.


Gwaine's eye for detail was almost as good as Arthur's, and Arthur found it much easier to distance himself from his thoughts while looking at the crime scene through photographs, so long as he didn't get a good look at the first body.

The pictures were scattered about his lab, lining his desk and in a large, layered circle on the floor with Merlin, cross-legged, one knee sticking up, in the focal point. The lab was already cramped enough, and having to pay attention to where he was rolling his chair made Arthur feel downright claustrophobic.

"Two victims," Merlin was muttering thoughtfully under his breath as he ran his fingers across the various photos immediately in front of them. "Two women . . ." He had been murmuring the same thing for twenty-four hours now.

Arthur's mind hadn't left the crime scene, either, or the memory that now filled his thoughts because of it. Uther told him his mother had died of cancer when Arthur was young. Whatever he had seen in the hotel, it couldn't have been his mother's death. Uther wouldn't have lied, not to him . . .

"But what if she's angry with us for thinking Alator was the Slasher? What if she wants to prove no one but her can be the killer?" Merlin asked suddenly.

"What?" Arthur asked distractedly before the words made sense in his head. "Oh . . . No, I don't think so."

Merlin's face fell.

"She was fine with everyone thinking Alator was the killer. That's why she didn't kill him and leave his body on display, because he bought her more time. She wanted him to disappear."

She wanted Arthur to make him disappear.

He spun around in his chair to face Merlin. "I don't think she cares what the police think."

"You're probably right. You always are about these things," Merlin said, reaching around to grab a photo in back of him. He studied it for a moment. "But she's trying to say something. The women had different wounds than the other victims—"

"They had the same wounds," Arthur corrected him, "just split between the two of them."

Merlin's eyes suddenly popped out of his head and he jumped to his feet. The abrupt movement made Arthur jolt and roll onto the corner of a picture.

"No, they weren't!" Merlin shouted in excitement. "They were combined on the other victims!"

Arthur's jaw dropped opened. Why hadn't he thought of that?

"Arthur!" Merlin was beaming as he jumped over the circles of pictures towards the ones on the desk. Arthur spun around to face them, too.

"That's how it all started," Arthur said, nodding in agreement as his mind turned rapidly. The theory made sense. "That's why she kills the way she does: She's telling us about the past."

But was it her past or Arthur's?

"One woman kills herself—slits her wrists," Merlin said, pointing to one of the photos in front of him, and Arthur was distracted for a brief moment as Merlin leaned over him to grab a second picture. "And the other is murdered—slashed face, knife wound to the heart."

He bolted upright again, his entire body practically vibrating.

"I've got to tell Lance and Gwen!" he decided. "If we could find who the murder victim was, maybe we can connect her to the suicide victim, and what their connection was to the Slasher. That will—"

"—Lead you closer to the killer's identity," Arthur finished, not trying to looked too dejected. He had to find her before Merlin did. If she really did know something about his past, he had to find out what.

"Oh, you—" Merlin was exclaiming, his eyes shining with joy. In that moment, he looked as though he might kiss Arthur. "I owe you!"

Arthur pushed a smile to his face. "Just doing the job."

Merlin jumped towards the door, making the pictures on the floor jump up and scatter in the wake of its slamming. After the papers ceased rustling, the lab fell silent, and Arthur didn't bother to clean up the mess before diving for his computer.

The Metropolitan Police may have been close behind, but Arthur was still one step ahead of them. The Slasher had made sure of that by giving him all the pieces he needed: the hotel. Maybe he had been there as child, he just didn't remember it?

He did a quick Google search of the hotel's name and the word murder, but all that showed up were articles about the most recent two victims. Arthur scrolled down the second page of the results before admitting he'd have to refine his key words.

He bit his lip in thought, the tips of his fingers hovering over the keys. He knew what he wanted to search, but he wasn't so sure he wanted the answer. Curiosity eventually won over and he typed in Igraine Pendragon after the words of his original search.

An old, scanned newspaper clipping belonged to the first hit. Its headline read: Police Wife Murderer by Killer for Hire.

Local woman, Igraine Pendragon, wife of Detective Uther Pendragon
of the Metropolitan Police, was brutally killed last night . . .

Arthur felt the same numbness that had overcome him in the hotel strike his heart again. Somewhere inside of him, the dark creature howled. It made him clench his jaw and the muscles in his nostril twitched.

This was proof. Uther lied to him—to him!

But why? That didn't make sense to Arthur. Uther could have told him his mother had been murdered: Why lie? Perhaps, Arthur thought, it was because Arthur had been there at the time of the murder, a small, innocent child; and Uther didn't want Arthur to recall the repressed memory. He shuttered: He could not imagine a time in which he was innocent.

He scanned the rest of the article eagerly, wondering what else Uther had lied to him about, when he reached the bottom, which read:

Igraine is survived by her husband and two children, Arthur and Morgana.

Arthur's lips parted as he stared dumbly at the screen, his gazed fixed on the last word until the text ran together and the letters held no meaning. He was searching his brain, wracking his mind for a memory—for a glimpse of memory—in which he could remember the girl. He thought for a moment he did. He saw a blurred face sitting across from him at the dinner table at Christmas. She had light hair and blue eyes, like him—like their parents; but it must have been only his imagination. He could not recall her.

But he had a sister. Somewhere out there, he had a sister that his father never told him about.

Where was she now?

He kept staring at the name as though it would give him directions to his sister's doorstep.

"Morgana."


He was almost used to the perpetual blackness. It had gotten to the point where he didn't mind listening to the television instead of seeing it or being able to read the clock on his own. The hardest part was not seeing the sunshine, and knowing he'd never get to see it again, but that didn't matter so much now: It was nighttime. It was late, maybe about midnight. There was no one there to read him the clock . . .

At the end of the room, he heard a sharp creak as the door opened. It whined again and clicked shut before light footsteps padded across the tile, getting closer. Alator turned his head this way and that, trying to listen out for any more sounds. Part of him wondered why a nurse had come in so late, and the other part experienced a growing sensation of dread.

"Who's there?" he asked into the darkness.

"Hello, Alator," said a cold voice. It seemed to slither across the sound waves. "Your medication must be wearing down. I've come to take away your pain."

Alator froze. He knew that voice: He'd heard it in the darkness before.

"It's you," he breathed.

He could hear his heart's frantic pumps in his ears, and he scrambled around, looking for the button that would call a nurse. Before he could locate it, his wrists were grabbed.


She was screaming again, blood and blonde hair and bright blue eyes turned bloodshot with tears. The boy was sobbing on the rug beneath her.

"No!" she cried, her voice terrified but resilient. "Not in front of my son! Please! Not my son!"

He saw a tall, broad bearded man clutching a knife. There was a mad glint in his eyes as a streak of silver whooshed before him, making contact with the woman's face. She let out a cry of anguish.

"No!" she was sobbing now, and the child was inconsolable as he sat helplessly on the floor, but someone tried to comfort him anyway. There was the quick brush of fingers on his arm, but he could only just make out the dark hair of the girl sitting next to him through his waterlogged lashes.

There was another swipe, this one slashing the woman's eye, and drops of red rained down on the children. He let out another shuttering wail.

"No! Arthur!" the woman screamed. Her blood decorated the walls, but she could only think of her son. The pain she harbored for him was nothing compared the physical trauma.

She gurgled, no longer able to speak or to fight against the stinging pain, and the knife flashed again before connecting with her heart. There was a loud, shuttering gasp that went straight through Arthur like an ache, and the man twisted the knife before pulling it out. As more blood showered the child, the woman's body fell backwards and bounced before settling on the mattress . . .

Consciousness flooded back, and Arthur awoke in his bed with a start. He sat up immediately, sweat dripping down his face. But, no. That wasn't sweat . . .

He touched his fingers to his cheek before looking down at them. Water glistened against his skin, reflecting the rays of the moon that peeked in through the gap in the curtain, before he rubbed it away between his fingers.

Whenever he blinked, flashes of the dream returned to him. The dream. The memory . . .