A Touch of the Wild

by Soledad

Author's note: For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part 01.

The persons mentioned in passim are names borrowed from the White Wolfe RPG but given a different background by me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part 10

On the next day Reid was allowed to get up and go to the police station, flanked by Allison and Murietta. Of the mysterious black man sitting in his bedroom he had only vague memories – so vague ones, in fact, that he wasn't sure he hadn't merely dreamed it.

The rest of the team welcomed him back with great relief. His wounded throat was healing very nicely. The scratch was still angry red, but the pretty Latino doctor had promised him that it would fade almost completely in a couple of weeks.

That couldn't explain the all too vivid memories… nightmares… whatever of himself bleeding to death and wolves licking his blood, of course. But he accepted – for the time being anyway – that the shock was playing strange tricks with his memory. He knew he'd have to address this particular topic eventually, but he preferred not to do it just now.

He wasn't allowed to do any field work yet, but he didn't really mind it. He eerie feeling of being watched hadn't subsided all the time; but even a maddened unsub on a downward spiral of devolution would think twice before attacking someone in the middle of a crowded police station. Or so he hoped.

The attack on him hadn't moved the case forward a bit. They could refine the profile, for sure. It was now clear that the unsub saw the interference of the BAU-team as a personal affront and had picked him as the next target with the specific purpose to show them that he was one step ahead of them, by each turn. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

Morgan and Detective Hoffs had managed to identify the remaining two homeless victims in his absence, though. One of them was a former star lawyer of the law firm Wolfram & Hart, who'd ruined his career with too many drugs… officially, at least. Murietta strongly suspected that the young man had gone against the wishes of the senior partners of the firm in some ways and had been systematically destroyed as a result. Wolfram& Hart were well-known for their ruthless methods and for the fact that they ate their own.

The other one was a failed rock star, whose career had started like a comet and ended like a falling star – all within two years. He was the unlucky counterpart of Ash Rivers, with the difference that he hadn't had an Isaac Abrams to catch him when he fell. During his short fame he, too, had performed in both the Vesuvius and the Asp Hole. And the young lawyer had represented business rivals of Victor Girard a few times… and lost spectacularly against Girard's lawyer, Phillipe Navital.

Neither of them could be connected to Christopher Houghton aka Mr. Magic X in any way, though. Nor had Hotch managed to speak with the Maestro, who seemed to have vanished from the face of Earth completely. Which was the only sensible thing to do if someone's life had been declared forfeit by the Prince of the City, and he was now hunted by every vampire brave – or insane – enough to try killing him. But that was something the mortals couldn't know, of course.

"He might be a sadistic bastard, but he's most likely not a fool," Prentiss guessed. "Perhaps he's gone underground. Hiding somewhere until we catch our killer."

JJ shook her head thoughtfully. "The man didn't make the impression of being easily frightened."

"Not frightened," Hotch said. "A voyeur… someone who likes to watch a drama unfold from a secure balcony. I'm sure he's hiding in plain sight and watching how we're trying to find the unsub."

"And what will he do when we've found the killer?" Detective Barritza asked.

"In that case we'll have to keep close watch on the killer," Murietta replied grimly. "If Dr. Reid is right with his theory, the Maestro will try to take things into his own hands."

He was playing a very delicate game here. He had to remind his mortal colleagues how very dangerous Christopher was, without giving away the fact that his Sire was the killer, not a potential target. He also had to support Reid's theory against the profile the BAU-team had established, although he knew that Reid was wrong. If – when – Christopher's corpse was found and identified, which could only be a matter of time, with a city-wide Blood Hunt going on for him, Reid's theory was the only thing that could explain it.

It was a fortunate thing that old and powerful vampires didn't combust into piles of as the way weak neonates did. They needed Christopher's corpse to give the whole serial killings – and their abrupt end – a convincing explanation. Even charred and mutilated, someone would be able to identify him. There were mortal associates for that kind of thing.

Of course, the clean-up teams would have to do extensive work in the meantime – Christopher couldn't be identified as the actual murderer. Four-Eyes and his minions had already infiltrated the internal computer network of the FBI (although Garcia had made them sweat for it as no vampire had been sweating for a very long time), in order to change the DNA test results. Christopher had been careless – or mad – enough to leave his DNA behind on – or rather within – several of his victims, and there were no trails allowed to lead to anyone within the undead community. It was a matter of life and death for them… well, unlife and Final Death, in their case.

They'd already found the perfect scapegoat whose DNA results would replace Christopher's: a crazed junkie who'd already killed two people for his next fix and had long lost the ability to remember anything that had happened further back than forty minutes, tops. Four-Eyes had placed (false) evidence that the man had worked in the Vesuvius, cleaning the toilets, and before that had been the night shift janitor of the Girard Fashion House.

The guy was one of those wannabe Hollywood starlets who liked to hang around in clubs favoured by middle-class actors and sports stars but never got a chance themselves and turned to booze and drugs to deal with the disappointment. He didn't match the profile in all aspects, but Murietta had already seen to that personnel from both the Asp Hole and the Vesuvius would "remember" him stalking well-known people – among them the wealthy victims – before those got killed.

Duke Fontaine was about to provide the right weapon to be found among the man's meagre belongings, to prove that he had the means to slash the throats of his victims and disembowel them. It was something akin a metal ring, that one could put on one's hand; when squeezed, several vicious blades sprang forth that made very similar wounds to those caused by a vampire's talons.

A Setite dealer would then slip the man an experimental drug, just before the local police would come to arrest him; a drug that would kill him after a period of delirious raving. Murietta didn't like the idea to use the services of Setite drug barons – they were unreliable at the best of times – but in this case, they had to. He knew there would be a price to pay later, but that just couldn't be helped.

It was almost frightening, actually, how easy it was to create a crazed killer – especially when the chosen person already had the basic tendencies to become one. It was a plan with a good chance to work, but Murietta had to keep his eye on all the myriad details that had to match for it to come together. And the only (mortal) person on whose help he could count was Moralez.

All this could only work, of course, if Hawk and the Prince's enforcer – and whoever else took part of the Blood Hunt – found and destroyed Christopher before he could come back for Reid. Murietta was certain that his Sire would come back. Christopher might have faked an attack on Ash Rivers, just to confuse the FBI (although Murietta wasn't entirely sure about that, either), but he absolutely wouldn't allow Reid to slip through his fingers. He would try to finish the job, in spite of the hunters breathing down his neck.

Murietta had no doubt that Christopher already knew that a Blood Hunt had been called against him. Strong vampires of Ancient Blood could read most others of their kind, and the city-wide announcement had been made right after the emergency Conclave. He must already have run into someone who knew about it.

But the depressing truth was, he had very little to fear. Only a handful of the local undead could hope to fight him and survive the encounter. Hawk, of course. The Preacher. The Prince's Enforcer. Duke Fontaine, perhaps – both he and the Preacher were Vietnam War veterans, after all, trained to fight dirty. Lady Abigail, the head of the local Tremere Chantry, most likely – she was a millennia-old, powerful Methuselah and could take out just about everyone. The Prince himself, doubtlessly. But that about summed it up.

Murietta himself wouldn't stand a chance, despite being old and powerful for a vampire. He was Christopher's Childe, and the ingrained loyalty towards his Sire would slow him down, whether he wanted or not. Being devoted to the Rules of the Camarilla did have its disadvantages sometimes.

Nonetheless, he'd paid a visit to the Malkavian-run weapons depot and got phosphorous guns from Duke Fontaine: for himself and Moralez, but also for Allison and Ramirez. It took a lot to kill a vampire. Traditional weapons, while they could do some damage, weren't enough for that. But fire was their natural enemy, just like sunlight, and a well-placed shot with a phosphorous gun was their best hope against Christopher. Trying to fight him in hand-to-hand struggle would have been suicidal. He might look fragile when in human disguise, but in his true form, he was near invincible.

He was also cruel and vengeful, not to mention a control freak, and Murietta knew his life would be forfeit if they hadn't managed to destroy his Sire. Christopher would learn – if he hadn't learned already – that it was Murietta who'd asked for a blood Hunt to be called against him… and that wasn't something a vampire would forgive his progeny. Especially not a maddened vampire on a killing spree.

Still, Murietta was only moderately worried about his own survival. Christopher would go after Reid first; he'd hold back the vengeance against his Childe until he'd gotten to his chosen prey. If they managed to protect Reid, Murietta himself wouldn't be in any danger – not yet anyway.

The detective sighed, picked up his cell phone and discretely retreated into one of the empty offices to find out how the Blood Hunt was going on.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In a dark little lane near the safe house a predator was waiting with the patience only the undead could bring up for his prey.

He knew about the Blood Hunt called against him. He could literally feel the hunters following the trail he'd left for them deliberately. He'd allow them to find him, eventually.

He'd be ready for them; give them the fight of their unlives. And he'd destroy them all, in the end. Compared with him, they were nothing: young, weak and stupid. Even that Anarch usurper that dared to call himself the Prince of the City.

The Prince! The monster that had once been a precocious thirteen-year-old made a derisive snort. This so-called Prince had been worse than the Sabbat whom he and his get were supposedly fighting in these days! This so-called Prince apparently believed that just because he and his Childer regularly dusted Sabbat fledglings, he really could rule the undead of Los Angeles.

That just because he'd left a trail of dead bodies behind him in good old Europe a century or so ago, he could compare himself with Christopher Houghton, the Maestro of illusions and Domination. With him, who'd sired Princes while Angelus hadn't been anything but a miserable outcast, cursed by the Ravnos, feeding on rats in the sewers!

Well, the arrogant upstart would learn who his true Elders were. And so would Joaquin and Victor and all their pathetic Childer. He'd destroy them all; teach them who gave them all eternal life – and that he had the power to take it them again.

Soon, very soon. But not yet. First, he had a hunt of his own to finish. He'd been disturbed at the first time. He'd tolerate no interruptions this time! He'd barely tasted the blood of the mortal during the first attack, but the heady taste made his insides burn with craving. This time, he'd have it all.

They'd saved his prey by giving him some of their Vitae – there couldn't simply be any other way. Well, all the better – now his blood would have that slight touch of the Wild that would make it even more palatable.

The sun was about to set in a couple of minutes. The predator focused his willpower to fight back the Thirst. It was now only a matter of time. Soon, he would get what he craved… and gorge himself in it. Right now, all he had to do was to wait.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Allison and Ramirez brought Reid back to the safe house, it was late in the night already, and the entire neighbourhood wrapped in darkness. The proximity sensors – hurriedly readjusted after the recent attack – blinked into life as they reached the house, floating the garden and its immediate area with bright yellow light. Despite being blinded by the sudden flash of light, Reid could vaguely perceive the dark shapes guarding the house. His protectors had apparently called for reinforcements. Allison and Ramirez were both supposed to stay the night, too.

That should have made him feel safe – but it didn't. He still had the feeling of being watched, and not only by his guardians. Murietta, who'd chosen to accompany them for the night, noticed his nervous fidgeting.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"He's here," Reid answered quietly.

Murietta didn't need to ask who he was. Even if Christopher hadn't been bleeding himself while half-disembowelling Reid, Reid had been given Ramirez' Vitae. He'd always be able to feel the presence of a strong, aggressive vampire. The effect might lessen in time, but would never completely vanish.

The detective activated his earpiece – he'd organized high-tech equipment as soon as they'd identified their killer, so that he'd be able to stay in contact with all his helpers at the same time.

"Pay attention," he said. "He seems to be already here. Any sign of him yet?"

"None so far," one of the guards answered. "Of course, he'd be able to conceal his presence from us. With you in the house…"

He trailed off, but Murietta nodded in understanding. The younger vampires of La Hermandad would sense the presence of old and powerful Kindred – unfortunately, Murietta himself was also one of those, and from Christopher's bloodline at that. His own presence would mask that of his Sire easily.

"I know," he said. "Well, that can't be helped. You'll have to rely on your ears and eyes."

"Let's hope it will be enough," the guard replied grimly. Considering Christopher's reputation, his doubts wasn't entirely unreasonable.

"It has to be," Murietta said. "Keep watch; I'll contact the Hunters, too. This has to end, here and now."

The guard acknowledged. Murietta let his headpiece on and sent a text message to Hawk and to the Prince's Enforcers, calling them to the safe house. He was glad that Moralez had listened to him and went home. She couldn't have helped, and worrying about another mortal would only have divided their forces. They all needed to focus on protecting Reid at the moment, and that was a difficult enough task.

He took the guns – rather big and bulky ones – from their hidden safe and loaded them with the clumsy-looking phosphorous bullets. Then he handed one of them Reid.

"Keep it ready all the time, just in case," he said. "It's heavier than the guns you're used to, so you'll have to use both hands. Aim at the middle of his chest; that should do the trick."

Reid examined the weapon with interest. "I've never seen one of these before," he said. He wasn't exactly a weapons expert, but even he could see that these weren't standard police models.

"And you won't see one again, most likely," Murietta replied. "They're custom made, with special bullets. I'd prefer if you didn't ask any questions I can't answer, though. It would be better if you knew as little as possible of these things – for both of us."

"I assume if I asked you whether you're involved with Special Ops or anything, I wouldn't get a straight answer anyway," Reid said. It was not a question. He knew he would not.

"Or anything," Murietta agreed noncommittally. "Let's just hope we can get our killer tonight; then you can forget the whole thing as soon as possible."

"I'm afraid it's not possible," Reid answered with a nervous little smile. "Photographic memory, remember? I wouldn't forget any of this, not even without the dreams."

"Dreams?" Murietta echoed, suddenly very concerned again. "What dreams?"

Reid shrugged. "Nightmares, actually. Weird ones, of strange monsters and hunting wolves and other stuff like that. Fire and darkness, too. They make no sense whatsoever, but they're not… pleasant."

"I can imagine that," Murietta murmured. "When did they start?"

"After I'd been attacked," Reid answered with a shrug. "You think there might be a connection?"

Oh yes, there definitely was a connection. Reid's mind was clearly trying to deal with a trauma it could find no rational explanation for. Which meant that the suppressed memories – another self-defensive action of the mind – might resurface in the not-too-far future… and then they'd have a problem.

"I'm sure it's just your mind trying to cope with the shock," Murietta said slowly. Reid gave him a doubtful look but no other answer.

They stayed awake for another hour or so, Reid too high-strung to sleep, the others dedicated to keep him safe, regardless of the costs. After midnight, however, stress and exhaustion finally caught up with Reid, and as little as he wanted to be alone, he had to retreat to his bedroom and try to at least rest a little.

"I'll be outside, right under your window," Ramirez promised. "And Allison's gonna watch your door all night."

Considering that the unsub had easily gotten around the defences last time, Reid didn't find that promise entirely reassuring. But he didn't want to hurt Ramirez' feelings, either. After all, the man was doing his best – and he had saved his life at the first attack. How Ramirez had achieved that was still something of a mystery for Reid, but he wasn't going to question his good fortune.

He threw himself on top of the unmade bed, fully clothed. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to take off his clothes. The mere thought made him feel ridiculously vulnerable. As if his oversized sweater were some sort of armour that could have protected him from the knife… or whatever bladed weapon the unsub was actually using.

He rolled to his side, curled up in a foetal position, hugging himself in misery. He wanted this ongoing nightmare to end. He wanted to go home, to familiar territory, where he'd be safe. Where he could stay with his colleagues, instead of being separated and watched like some sort of prisoner… even if it was for his own protection. He wanted his life back!

He screwed his eyes shut, trying to force back the tears of loneliness and frustration. He was a grown man, for God's sake; well beyond the age when crying himself to sleep would be acceptable!

"Get a grip, Reid!" he chided himself. "Crying like a baby's not gonna help!"

He wasn't aware that he'd whispered these words audibly – at least for Kindred ears – in the silence of his room, and so he was suitably shocked when a low, seductive voice answered him.

"You're so very right, little lamb," the voice cooed. "Crying won't help you. Nor will begging or screaming… or whatever else you might try. Nothing's gonna help you escape from me."

Reid jerked into an upright position at once, all thoughts of sleep gone. He looked around frantically, but all he could see were the vague outlines of furniture, barely visible in the stray light coming from the garden.

"Who are you?" he demanded; surprisingly enough, even for himself, he felt more angry than scared at the moment. He was fed up with the unsub's morbid mind games. "Show yourself!"

"Oh, so the little lamb wants to see eye-to-eye with the big, bad wolf," the low singsong voice purred. "How brave… or foolish. It doesn't matter which, though. He deserves to know who the one to end his miserable little existence is."

Something stirred in the shadows and forth came a slender creature, clad entirely in black. Only his flawless face gleamed ghostly white in the darkness, and his eyes were burning in an unholy silver light. Reid could still recognise him, of course. It was the Maestro, aka Christopher Houghton, the sadistic and eerily beautiful young magician from the Vesuvius.

"I should have known," Reid commented bitterly. "I could feel the evil in you from the first moment."

"Good… evil… what quaint little labels," the man… boy… creature shrugged. "Our little lamb is very perceptive. It's surprising that he hasn't made the right connection earlier… much earlier."

"I just failed to see what reason you'd have to murder people," Reid answered. "What could they possibly have – what can I possibly have – that you don't?"

"Oh, the little lamb wants to know?" the Maestro asked conversationally. "Well, since he's going to die a grisly death within moments, I think it's safe enough to satisfy his curiosity," for a moment, he seemed to shake off the manic air that had surrounded him, and his mask-like face gained some semblance of life. "Well, the simple truth is: they got the chance – you've got the chance – to grow old. To make an impact, a career. To become someone important and name-worthy. Due to an unfortunate… accident in my long-gone youth, I'll never get that chance. I find that extremely unfair."

There was a slight whiny undertone in his voice, like in that of a spoiled child, and Reid wondered how old he actually might be. What he'd look like without all that extensive plastic surgery that must have kept him so youthful-looking.

"So you go around and murder people, just to take away their chance as well?" Reid asked, disgusted but not the least surprised. From the point of view of victimology, things began to make some twisted sense.

The Maestro nodded nonchalantly. "Excellent reasoning. I see they don't call our little lamb a genius for nothing. But that's only one half of my… what do you profilers call it? Oh, yes, I remember. My motivation."

"And the other half being?" Reid asked. He might have started talking to the killer to win some time, to give his protectors the chance to arrive, but now he was truly curious. It was a morbid fascination, but fascination nonetheless.

"Blood," the Maestro replied simply.

"Blood," Reid repeated thoughtfully. "If I remember correctly, all victims were completely drained. Do you consider yourself some kind of vampire?"

"Some kind of vampire?" the Maestro laughed quietly. It was a sound that made Reid shiver; one filled with cold amusement, madness and malevolence. "My dear little lamb, there's only one kind of vampire. The one that slaughters your kind like you slaughter cattle, and gorges himself in your warm, mortal blood. As I'm gonna do with you in a moment."

His tragically beautiful mask dropped abruptly… or, to be more accurate, it twisted into the visage of something ancient, powerful and profoundly evil – and very, very dead. Vicious, curved talons extended from the ends of his slim fingers, his hands… shrivelling somehow, until they looked like the claws of some carrion bird. His bloodless lips curled back, revealing long, wicked, razor-sharp canines. His silver eyes captured Reid's, mesmerising him like a cobra would do with the bird it intended to eat, and Reid felt a strange numbness spread along his spine towards his limbs.

He knew that in a moment, he wouldn't be able to move, even if his life depended on it – which, in fact, it did. But he was still in control of his arms, and the knowledge of certain death gifted a last, desperate flare of willpower upon him.

He patted around himself for the gun Murietta had given him. He doubted that he'd be able to aim properly, but he'd be damned if he let himself be slaughtered without putting up at least some resistance. Like the stupid sheep this… this monster thought him to be!

With a last, desperate effort, he grabbed the gun and fired it without any particular aim. It kicked back like a mule, throwing both him and his attacker backwards. The impact broke Reid from the Maestro's thrall, but he couldn't even think of a way to escape. All he could do was to stare at his attacker's midsection, where an ugly, profoundly bleeding wound – with burnt outlines – was spreading rapidly. The custom made gun must have had one hell of a bullet in it.

But one phosphorous bullet wasn't enough to finish off a vampire of Christopher's age an powers. Howling in pain and wrath, he seemed to literally grow as he zeroed on on Reid, changing into something monstrous between a human-like creature and a demon wolf… and stuck half-way, unable to complete the transformation because of the bullet wound.

Still, even so, he was strong enough to tear his prey to pieces, and Reid knew that. As ridiculous as it sounded, he was about to be slaughtered by a clearly insane vampire; and the fact that his logical mind was telling him vampires didn't exist was not helping at the moment.

The stench of the monster – even if the change was incomplete, in wolf form vampires did smell like he animal – numbed his senses, and the panic did the rest. He barely registered his door and window being broken through; barely heard the sound of repeated gunshots. The sharp, biting smell of phosphor couldn't penetrate the stench of burnt, bleeding wolf that surrounded him like thick fog.

He welcomed the darkness when it took him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Is he hurt?" Ramirez asked in concern, ignoring the still smoking remains of Christopher.

Murietta checked Reid's pulse and shook his head, relieved.

"No; he just passed out. Small wonder, really. I'm surprised that he managed to withstand Christopher's Domination for as long as he did. My late Sire was infamous of his mesmerising powers."

"He's quite extraordinary for a mortal," Hawk, who'd joined the ones guarding the house right after sunset, admitted. "What are you planning to do with him?"

"It depends on how much he'll remember," Murietta said thoughtfully. "I hope the shock was bad enough to make him forget certain details. I'd prefer not to mess with a mind like this."

"It would be wasteful to destroy it," Hawk agreed. "However, if he does remember…"

"… then it will be the decision of the Prince, what choices should be offered him," Murietta interrupted.

The two vampires – both old, both powerful, both stubborn like Hell – glared at each other in determination, neither willing to back off as much as an inch. Ramirez was getting nervous. A fight between these two could have ended very ugly… in more blood and gore than anyone, even vampires, would want to face.

It could also divide the Camarilla dangerously. Hawk had been called to LA by the Prince himself, to establish a much-needed, strong Nosferatu presence in the city. Murietta, however, had been there since the beginning. As the Brood-brother of the former Prince and coming from an old and respected bloodline, he was highly respected himself, and had wide-spread support, even among the Anarch. As a lieutenant of La Hermandad, Ramirez was well aware of that. If it came to sympathies, Murietta would beat the Nosferatu with his hands tied to his back.

Hawk knew that too, most likely, because he gave in… for the time being.

"Very well," he said with a humourless grin that reminded Ramirez of a shark. "But I will share my concerns with the Prince."

"So will I," Murietta replied. "We'll see whom he's going to listen."

It wasn't an empty threat, and they both knew it. Hawk might function as Angelus' unofficial Justicar, but Murietta had the greater support with the undead population of LA – even among their mortal allies. Not even the Prince could ignore that fact. Which was the reason why the detective had a vote in the Conclave, even though Victor Girard was the Toreador Primogen. He was officially Victor's second; in truth, his word had more weight within the Clan.

Hawk left without a further word, moderately annoyed, but willing to wait before his next step. He was an old-fashioned vampire (Nosferatu generally were), a stickler to the rules, but he knew how to pick his fights. Right now, Murietta clearly had the better cards; but Hawk vindicated himself the right to take harsh measures, should things skitter out of control.

Murietta looked at Ramirez tiredly. "Tuck him in bed and stay with him," he said. "He seems to feel the safest with you. I'll send the others home."

"You should go home, too," Ramirez said, scoping up Reid in his arms. "Even you need rest; you've been up and running for four days by now."

"Oh, I will rest all right," Murietta answered, feeling the exhaustion spread through his entire body, now that the danger was no longer there. "Just not in my haven. I think I'll need to soak up some mortal warmth after all this. I'll call Bianca and see if I can stay with her tonight."

"I'm sure she'll let you," Ramirez said. "That woman is a jewel. You're very fortunate, you know."

"I know," Murietta replied with a tired smile.

Then he went to send Allison and the guards home before giving Moralez that phone call.

~TBC~