Author's Note: If you noticed, I kind of lost steam with this one. Wasn't feeling the pretty 'standard' style plot. But after bouncing around a few ideas with MKP, I was re-inspired. So this fic has sort of taken a left turn. But hopefully the twist will be enjoyable?

Disorienting.

That was the word she was looking for, straining her mind to come up with, along with any sort of explanation for what her eyes and ears and nose, and skin was telling her. Obviously, all of her senses in conjunction with one another wouldn't be lying to her. Right?

So... Where the hell was she? And why did she have absolutely no memory of how she got here? Got into this white and blue room. Everything in it, the vanity in the corner with matching frilly covered stool, the little damask settee and coffee table, the screen room divider, the curtains, the toile wallpaper, the bedspread... her dress... all white with blue accents. It was... strange.

And this was most definitely not what she remembered wearing the last time she was, well, conscious. She threw the white-and-blue bedspread completely off from her revealing the rest of the white cotton dress with blue vines embroidered along the hem and the bodice. It was a simple cut, sleeveless and knee-length, little pearl buttons running down the front. Soft, high-quality cotton, a thread count on par with the sheets that felt almost like silk they were so smooth and soft.

Definitely nowhere she'd ever been before. Definitely not one of her dresses. Even though it fit her extremely well, hugging her bare breasts and sides, and when she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and got to her feet, fighting a wave of vertigo, the skirt draped over her equally naked hips and bottom, clinging just a little to her figure.

A dress that fit her. But no underwear.

"Well, that's certainly not a good sign," Merri said, her quiet voice sounding incredibly loud in the otherwise vacant, still room.

Her leg ached, but not as badly as it had been. She pulled the skirt up, examining her naked thigh. New stitches, thick and black holding the gash in her flesh closed. Actually, it appeared to be healing, pink and raw but not bloody or oozing. No longer requiring a bandage.

But despite the healing wound, her legs felt weak. So did her arms. And... There was a puncture mark in the back of her hand, she recognized as belonging to an IV needle. Was this some bizarre sort of hospital? Had LaSalle taken her to Miss Southern Bell's Sanitorium to convalesce? She tried the door, which was -damn- locked from the outside. Noticed a note taped to the white-washed wooden door. It was written in a neat, flourished scrawl.

Dear Miss Meredith,

When you awake, please kindly ring the bell and a servant will be up to fetch you.

Your humble host,

Mssr. Beauchamps

Wow. She really needed to wake up now. Because had she fallen down a rabbit hole or gone through the looking glass or something?

There was a blue rope (tassel and all) hanging beside the door, which she assumed was the bell pull. She didn't have much in the way of options, now did she? Except maybe checking the window that doubtless lay behind those white and blue toile drapes that precisely matched the wallpaper. But she didn't feel much like climbing through a window at the moment. And besides the nagging feeling of unease in the back of her mind, there was no blatant danger she could point to.

And where was LaSalle?

As promised, a servant did show up, a key clicking in the lock and then a light rap, begging entrance. Really? Knocking on a door locked from the outside?

"Um... Come in?" Merri said, feeling more than a vague sense of surrealism. Was she dreaming? Well, obviously she wasn't. She was clearly awake. The floor was cool beneath her bare feet, the air warm and scented with vanilla and moth balls.

Her unfamiliar surroundings were too detailed for her brain to have generated from scratch. As was the petite, olive-skinned woman who stood waiting at the threshold when she opened the door. Filipino, maybe. Dark hair, gentle dark eyes. And wearing a ridiculous grey maid's costume, complete with crisp white apron and frilly little cap.

"You are feeling well?" the woman asked, with what seemed to be some genuine concern.

"Yes, thank you," she said, going for casual with her tone and not 'completely freaked out', which she was. "May I ask... where am I?"

The maid hesitated. Apparently, she hadn't received instructions on answering Merri's questions.

"You are a guest of Monsieur Beauchamps. He requests the pleasure of your company for tea."

"Um...right now?" Merri asked, looking down at the thin white cotton dress covering her nakedness.

"Yes."

Wow. Helpful there. This was so fricken strange. She had might as well been completely naked, she felt so exposed and vulnerable. There was nothing she hated more than a lack of control over any given situation. And this, this was absolute powerlessness. She had no idea where she was. She had no idea what had happened to her. She didn't have her clothes, let alone her Glock or boot knife or her phone.

"Alright." Merri indicated for the servant to lead the way, following her out into an ornately decorated hall. But at least it wasn't an expanse of white with little blue idyllic scenes, she supposed. They passed by innumerable closed doors, turned down another hall, went down some stairs... Already feeling entirely disoriented, Merri quickly lost track. She wouldn't be able to find her way back to that -compared to the size of this place- little white room. Not that she had any reason to do so. Her things weren't there.

LaSalle wasn't there. Where the hell had he gotten his redneck ass to? Wasn't this whole over-the-top Southern hospitality thing in his purview? Was this just some twisted joke of his, dropping her off with friends, because teasing her for fainting on him wasn't going to be enough?

That was unfair.

This elaborate scheming wasn't his style. Not to mention how personally invasive it was to strip her naked and dress her up. No. The rationale her imagination desperately attempted to provide, to prevent her anxiety from exploding to unbearable levels, was not even remotely what was going on here. She knew it. And it made her stomach feel hollow.

Or was that the smell of sausage teasing a hunger in her as she followed the docile, reticent maid into a large room that could only be called a 'parlor'. It was well lit through tall glass windows, sported a presently cold fireplace, a sage velvet settee and matching chairs, a glass coffee table with a small tea service and a silver cart heaped with pastries, fruit and the sausages her nose had alerted her to. The object that immediately drew one's eye however was the man, who rose from one of the wing back chairs and brandished what could only be called a 'winning smile'. His teeth were white and perfectly aligned, his smile broad and disarming, forming little dimples in his cheeks. His blue-grey eyes were steady and confident. He was of an average height, an inch or two under six feet, handsome, and dressed in a classic white suit sans tie, impeccably tailored to his trim figure.

And Merri instantly disliked him.

"Miss Meredith Brody," he greeted her with a thick old money Louisiana accent. "So glad tuh see you up and about. Won't you join me for some tea? Cook has been kindly enough tuh heat up some of his freshly prepared boudin rouge."

He gestured to the settee. Merri considered being flippant and defiant. But what was the point? This man was obviously in charge, the one with the answers she wanted. So she walked around to settle herself on the small elegant sofa, making sure the scant cotton dress covered her knees which she kept firmly pressed together in her panties-less state. Although, he might have already seen everything.

But everything about the man said 'rich asshole' and Merri thought it far more likely he'd ordered a servant to handle her unconscious body. Probably even the petite maid who was currently fixing a plate with a scone, melon balls and strawberries, and the blood sausage (she had no intention of eating -some things were outside of her culinary adventurousness) which she brought over to Merri, before likewise fixing her a cup of tea. No questions as to her preference were asked. She had a feeling this wasn't a place where you were allowed to make your own decisions, or have your own opinion.

She was having tea with a dictator of his own little world. Sort of felt precisely like she was in an old plantation home sitting with the patriarch, about to receive terms.

"I ehm sure you have questions, Miss Meredith," he said, once the cup of tea had been placed in his guest's hands and the maid was dismissed with a wave of his.

"It's Agent Brody," she said, taking a sip of the far-too-sweet and far-too-milky tea. "And I would like to know where I am and how I got here."

"I imagine you would, my dear." Blatantly ignoring her official title and what she indicated would be her preferred form of address. Not surprising. But the lack of appeasement indicated a lack of friendly intent. She simply stared back into those blue-grey eyes. She could be as stubbornly patient as the most reticent of them. He took a sip of his own tea, placed the cup back in its saucer, set the saucer down on a side table. "You are at my home. As for how you came tuh be here, well... Let's just say I was feelin' inclined towards some acts of Good-Samaritanism."

Merri took a bite of her scone. If his intention was to get her frustrated and worked up, she wasn't about to oblige. The man was obviously going to take his own damn sweet time with his 'reveal'. An interrogator tactic, for certain. But more than that, he doubtless derived some sort of amusement from playing with others. The control he'd asserted thus far was undeniably an indicator of that.

"We found you, unconscious an' in uh bad way, outside of uh bar just outside of the French Quarter in New O'leans," he said, his blue-grey eyes studying her intently as she popped a strawberry in her mouth. Playing it cool and reserved definitely seemed the best course of action with the strange man.

"Why not take me to a hospital, then?" she asked, taking another sip of her milk-tea.

"Don't trust them instuh-tutions tuh lance uh boil, let uhlone treat uh woman sufferin' from an infected wound they obviously failed tuh properly treat the fuhrst time around." Oddly, he did have a point there, Merri supposed. "I had my puhsonal physician tend tuh yuh nasty gash there. Said you were on the vuhge of developin' a blood infection."

"I'll have to get his name and address from you so I can send him a thank you note," Merri said, unable to contain her sarcasm. This was so, so weird. With an underlying ominous tone. If the taste and texture of the food, the feel of the sun on her skin wasn't so acutely complex and real, she would think she had succumbed to a blood infection and currently was in a coma.

"I am shuh the good doctor would say that seein' yuh back to the pic-shuh of health would be thanks enough." Mssr. Beauchamps, if that was his real name, leaned in, placing a hand on her injured leg, just below the healing wound, giving her thigh a familiar squeeze. It was all she could do not to flinch, or punch him in the face. She had a feeling that she didn't want to get on his bad side, however. And it was obvious that he was purposefully pushing her.

"Right before I fainted..." She opted to use the term, portraying herself as a 'delicate flower' somehow seemed appropriate in the presence of someone donning the facade of a Southern Gentleman. "I was with my partner. We'd just apprehended a suspect in the case we were working. Do you know what happened to them?"

He leaned back in his chair, made a thoughtful noise and an equally contrived contemplative expression.

"Don't rightly know, Miss Meredith. There weren't a soul in sight when we stumbled across yuh pretty self lookin' like snow white in her glass coffin even though you were lyin' in the street there."

Bullshit.

"Are you sure?" She decided to press it, because they weren't getting anywhere. And her feeling of dread seemed to grow as the basic needs of her body for food and water had been satisfied. There was no way LaSalle had willingly left her lying unconscious in the street. "My partner's name is Chris LaSalle. He's about 5'9", 155 pounds. Brown hair. Blue eyes..."

Beauchamps was shaking his head, making that same fake thoughtful noise.

"That could be any numb-uh of gentleman I have encountuh'd in my life," he said. "But as I said, there weren't a soul around. That's why I felt it my duty tuh take you in, Miss Meredith."

Again, with the 'Miss Meredith'. He was patronizing her, pushing her, lying through his very straight, very white teeth. But what the hell was he after?

If he had her, then he had to have LaSalle, too. Unless... No. She wouldn't think that. Unless proven otherwise, she had to believe he was alive. She wanted to believe he was with Pride, searching for her. But, "How long has it been since you so generously took me in?"

"You've been in an' out of it, mostly out of it, for the past three days. The good doctor had tuh keep you sedated once yuh fevuh broke, tuh prevent you from tearin' out the lovely new stitches he put in."

Bullshit. Had he already tried a similar game with LaSalle? Had he been spending the past few days toying with her partner until deciding it was her turn?

"I want to see LaSalle," she said, dropping the amiable expression she'd been forcing herself to wear throughout the conversation so far. His genial expression remained, but it fled from his eyes. They were cold and hard, and Merri had only ever seen the like before in individuals who were sociopathic in some degree or another.

"As I already said, I don't know where yuh friend is. An' the fact that you are implyin' otherwise is quite offensive, considerin' all I have done for yuhself."

Her 'host' (was that still the correct term if your stay wasn't optional?) rose to his feet, and called out, "Pauline!"

It took less than ten seconds for the maid to arrive, the same one that had fetched Merri in the first place.

"Miss Meredith wishes tuh return tuh her room an' rest up until dinner is served."

She did? Well, obviously not a suggestion. This man did not make 'suggestions'. Demands, orders, yes. But not 'suggestions.' Merri got to her feet, followed 'Pauline' (that was most definitely not her real name) out of the parlor and back through the great house. She considered running off. Unarmed, the servant would not be difficult to shake. There were probably persons that served as guards or hired guns on the property. He was the type. She was making assumptions, yes, but by being so unreadable, Beauchamps was actually quite readable to her interrogator trained self. Sociopath, loved being in control, got pleasure out of messing with people. Whatever he was after (if there was anything specific at all, it had to do with Sidney Vincent's case), he was playing with her. And possibly with LaSalle, too. The bad part would come when the mind games weren't enough.

She should leave. Just walk out. He might even allow it. But in that case, LaSalle was as good as dead. She had a feeling that if they'd been grabbed outside the bar, Beauchamps got Massey, too, and the former CI-turned-suspect was likely already dead. That man was just an inconvenience. The fact that their captor had bothered to 'fix' Merri, have her infection treated... He was after something the federal agents possessed.

But if she escaped, if she went for backup, without LaSalle by her side, Beauchamps would kill him and get rid of the evidence. Coming back with a full tactical team and a warrant would do nothing. Not if her partner was already dead.

No. No, she'd have to play the long game. Hell, she'd been trained for patience as an interrogator. She could do it. Once she knew where and what shape her friend was in, then she'd take steps to get them out of this mess... Whatever sort of mess this was.

She considered asking 'Pauline' for help, to get a message to Pride. But her docility, her accepting, subservient manner reflected the loyal employee she was. The only kind a man like Beauchamps would keep, especially when he flaunted criminal activity like keeping a woman, a federal agent at that, locked in a room.

Yup, the audible click of the key turning informed Merri that she was still being kept locked up. Perhaps it was time to check the window and do a thorough search of the room. She had a feeling she wouldn't find anything-

Well, that was new.

A book had been placed in the middle of the now neatly made-up bed. (Definitely not how she left it). It was hardcover and looked to be an antique. She picked it up, an ironic laugh escaping through her nose in a snort.

Ann Radcliffe. The Mysteries of Udolpho.

Not very subtle, Mssr. Beauchamps.

A/N: Will Brody figure out why she's ended up in the middle of what feels like a Gothic novel plot? Will she be able to find LaSalle? And who is the mysterious Beauchamps and what does he have to do with Sidney Vincent's case, if anything at all?

A/N2: Interested? Or is too weird of a twist?