A/N: I know this has taken a while to write and post, but I wasn't really sure where "Tales of Charon" was going, so I hope you like this. It isn't longer than other chapters, but the POV pieces might be lengthier than those in the former story's chapters. I am experimenting, so please comment this writing style if you'd like. I hope it explains the characters better than in "Cries of the Wolves", which was the intention.
* I have an additional message; I went back to read "Cries of the Wolves" and I realized that Rena was both described as "having been undead for four decades" and being way past the age of four hundred. I don't know how to explain that one, but I am winging it, so pretend that what you've read so far is true: Rena is a 400-year-old vampire who happens to have been undead for the past 40 years. I'll hopefully come up with something that explains that. Writer mistake – sorry.
Also, explaining voodoo is hard; hell, I don't even understand most of it. So, I'm sorry if I get anything wrong. Read the wikipedia page if you're confused. I googled it and read different sites.
Disclaimer: I don't own it?
Albeit Abnormal: Tales of Charon
Chapter II: Faint Lines
The tiny drop of blood is enough; the mass spectrometer needs more, but Abby surely doesn't. Instead of going home, as Gibbs has instructed them to, she finds herself flacking back to where she came. Classique. The lashes of her plateau boots are knotted tightly, her tee damp by the rain and she doesn't feel tired or grossed out by the gory crime scene. With her black lace umbrella, she quickly stalks the streets until returning to the nightclub slash bar. She easily avoids the puddles that the rainy seasonal weather of DC is creating around her. With her extended hearing she is capable of counting every drop, listening as it falls from the sky and splashes, colliding with the asphalt. It is something she has grown accustomed to since hitting puberty, when her nature manifested.
Her mother is due to arrive tomorrow by train. New Orleans is a long way and it's been ages since Abby has seen her mother. She is looking forward to her visit, but she is also nervous. It's not that Kendra disapproves of Abby's job choice, Abby is just awfully afraid that she'll jock some memories or worse, disappoint her. When is why she has sought the bottle, confirming with a certain amount of dispiritedness that dhampirs cannot get drunk – and she refuses to drink tequila on a week night. She was glad that she wasn't intoxicated when they were called to the crime scene. It would have been utterly embarrassing, not that she would mind. She trusts her co-workers, even Tony, being a wer and all, and Ziva. She did heal Tony, so she has been taken in like a lost kitten. They are some sort of dysfunctional family, the team of Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism. It's what makes them work.
Soon she finds the fluorescent, beaming sign that reads Classique in curvy letters. Had it been anything else, it would have been cheesy, but it works for a place owned by the scariest vampire Abby knows. Anyway, it offers sanctuary and promises a decent cocktail menu. And Rena is quite the hostess once you see past the whole being dead and feeding off humans. No, Classique is truly enchanting, vampires or not. Abby knows for a fact that the place hasn't been be-spelled by witchcraft. Any sorts of Wiccan works gives her migraines. Oddly enough, voodoo doesn't. Voodoo doesn't call to her like blood, either. She can hardly feel it; the magical roots, surely, but it doesn't bother her.
She has spent most nights at Classique or helping Rena with her newest purchase, the café she has chosen to name Orbit. Why a vampire needs to serve customers during daylight is lost on Abby, though Rena has explained something about the atmosphere and popularity. Honestly, Abby doesn't wanna know, which is exactly why she has declared waitressing for the vampire. Even at Orbit, though she, due to a promise, checks up during the day on the human personnel. It's nearby the NCIS headquarters, and since Rena hasn't transferred her most trusted human employee, Joshua, it'll have to do.
She enters the magical scene of Classique. In the crowd of bodies being pressed together, she feels all of it; human emotion. It coils and toils, toying with her other senses. Rena has been teaching Abby how to control her nature better, though she prefers to call it "concealing". It is awfully hard when Rena is only awake at Classique, leaving little privacy. She passes though the crowd and unto a more private area, the bar to the left and soft couches with cushions to the rear. Music fills the air, bumping with the movement of the crowd. There's many tonight, and Rena looks absolutely thrilled about it. In the low-cut jeans and an aquamarine silk top, she looks ravishing but human. Once you look past that, with a closer look, you'll start to sense the abnormality. The way her face is composed, all the time, and carries a certain edge. The closest thing Abby can compare her to is Ziva. Preparedness is a quality they both share.
Rena – if she has a surname, Abby doesn't know of it – is the legal owner of both Classique and Orbit, but instead of dressing up like the clientele, she is wearing the clothes of a bartender. Simple stilettos completing the look. Her short, boyishly cut hair has grown longer and more spiky, fading from bright red to a more auburn color. It still seems strong and radiant in the dimmer lights. Normally, it would look mismatched, but there is nothing normal about Rena. She is five-eight, paler than humanly healthy, and 400 years and counting. Or so she likes to let others believe. It seems to be a running joke about Rena's original age. She looks like someone in her early thirties, someone with enough respect to run a nigh club as prestigious as Classique. She has been in the business for longer than Abby has been alive. Whether the police knows of the vampiric ownership or not, on paper Rena is not called Rena. Compulsion, perhaps. Abby wouldn't know how to recognize it.
"Abby!" Joshua calls from the bar. The golden-haired Michigander is a really nice person and is human as far as Abby can tell. He is charming, caring and quite the catch. Abby suspects that Rena keeps him around for more than his bar-tending skills. He is six-two and is twenty-four.
"Joshua," she exhales. She scoops over in one of the bar stools, eyeing a guy in his thirties who sends her an unnerving gaze before staggeringly dismounting the chair, tottering away.
"He's a regular," the bartender explains.
"You do have a rather pesky clientele," Abby comments, taking the rum he's handing her. Like her training, Rena has insisted that all beverages served to Abby are on the house. She has given up on protesting. It's not her fault if Rena loses her liquor license. Hell, she avoided suspicion that time about two months ago when a barmaid out of jealousy drunk that blood-spiked cocktail that had been intended for Abby. To a dhampir, it would be like drinking water, but it had a few complications that ended in Kimberly Hanson being rushed to the same hospital where their case had brought them. Kimberly was pumped and fired, or, at least, Rena had dealt with her.
"That I do agree with," a darker, salacious voice says behind her. She looks to the empty chair beside her and a dark-haired man with exotic green eyes smiles and sits down. He is slim and has a certain air around him. His green eyes are dark enough to drown in and seem bottomless, like a pit you really shouldn't go near. He is caucasian with the slight tinge of a tan. His cuffs are rolled up and the dress shirt he's wearing is burgundy color with narrow, vertical, orange stripes. He wears it well with simple black denim pants. It makes him look appealing and down to earth. He is new here. Abby isn't certain that the vine brown color of his hair truly existed. She suppresses the urge to run her hands through it, but if she knows herself, it is visible on her face.
Trying to pass for casual interest? Riight. Apparently, Joshua seems to know him. "The usual?"
"Yeah," the dark-haired Mr. Handsome says, blinking and sipping the drink before turning his full attention towards Abby. She nearly blushes under it.
"Abby, let me introduce Mr. Navarro," Joshua says unsteadily, his eyes cautious.
"Dante," the stranger supplies, offering his hand. When she shake sit, she can feel his heart beat, but also something else entirely. He has a certain aura about him, but she has never been good at reading those.
"Abby," she offers, feeling silly. Yet Dante acts like a gentleman, nodding respectfully.
"Well, Abby," Dante starts, engaging in pleasant conversation. "A refreshing night, isn't it?"
Abby knows better than to speak of an active crime scene; yet she knows the frown is visible on her face. "Certainly."
"What gruesome details do you keep from me?" he questions, sending her a rather serious glare before smiling. "Hey, if you don't feel comfortable talking about it, fine by me. But it bet it wasn't a date who stood you up?"
Intrigued, she plays the game too. "Why that?"
"I'd personally never let such a beautiful woman sit all by herself on such a buzzing night," Dante explains, keeping his green eyes on her instead of traveling over the crowd. She feels intruded yet embraces the attention. It helps dividing her job and her leisure time.
"Well, what are you doing in town?" Abby asks. "I haven't seen you before."
Before he can respond, Rena treads into view, her pale, supernatural eyes terrifyingly fixed on Dante. Abby is glad the vampire has never stared at her like that. The expression changes before she can pinpoint it. Her rigid body goes tense and evaporates into uneasiness.
"Mr. Navarro," Rena says. Butter wouldn't have melted on her tongue. Ignoring Abby completely, Rena goes into complete defensive while trying to be pleasant. Whoever Dante is, he has an impact on Rena that is being putted to the test.
"Rena LaCour, what can I do for you?" Dante asks, his expression still pleasant but his body responding identically to Rena's. Abby feels like an audience to a tennis match.
"Abby, I believe you've met Dante Navarro," Rena says, her eyes still on the stranger. "He's new in town."
"I got that part," Abby skips in, annoyed that she is being treated as a child merely because Rena is a vampire – a mature, experienced one – and she is the dhampir. She can be just as scary. 'Can' being the operative word.
"Well, Abby, has Mr. Navarro told you what he does for a living?" Rena points out, her voice still vile, her face a mask of pure pleasantries. Confused, Abby doesn't understand this display of dominance. Rena herself is a blood-feeding supernatural being with four centuries on her rep sheet. She shouldn't be judgmental when the things she has done can't be considered in the Geneva convention. She has never seen a vampire be territorial, but this is her guess at Rena being it.
"I was just going to," Dante says casually, then faces Abby. "I'm a necromancer."
As if on schedule, the Major Crime Response Team of the NCIS department is gathered next morning in their bullpen, awake and ready to sort evidence. Wearing standard issue overalls in an indiscreet red (following protocol!), they ride the elevator in silence – something rare – to the ground floor. Its back entrance serves as evidence garage. The crime scene is virtually recreated and all evidence is put where found, only bagged and tagged, the more important ones being analyzed as they arrive. A temporary work station with keyboard, monitor and a larger screen for show-and-tell have been plugged to the NCIS server. Full access required.
Gibbs silently motions for Ziva to explain what exactly that lead her to believe that their double homicide was part of a voodoo ritual. The Israeli woman eyes Abby and in unison, they begin explaining the basic facts about voodoo and the particular vévé.
"I recognized it from my past. Voodoo is not bad in general, not at all, but it depends on how you use it. Taking into consideration that the bodies were found in the vévé, this is most definitely black voodoo. This particular pattern belongs to Baron Samedi, the loa.."
"What's a loa?" Tony asks immaturely, but it's a valid question.
"Kinda like a god of the voodoo culture," Abby supplies, eyeing Ziva for permission. "For worship."
"Cool," Tony comments. Gibbs lets it slide.
"What exactly does the vévé and the loa symbolize?" Tim, ever the probie, dares to ask. Gibbs and Tony do not begin to argue over his ignorance, evidently not wanting to admit their own.
"The loa needs to be summoned through a ceremony, a rite. The vévé is a religious symbol that acts like a beacon and represents the loa. Sacrifices..." Ziva swallows. "Sacrifices are placed upon them. Usually food or drink, but Baron Samedi has a history of being inventive with his demands. Depending on the ointment and powder used to draw the vévé, it can represent a lot of rituals, especially when you are dealing with Baron Samedi."
"Who is this Baron?" Gibbs asks.
"The loa of the dead. He can be ambiguous, though. Dead does not have to be badly associated."
"Tell that to the Clarkes," Tony adds wryly, earning him a head slap from Gibbs. He flinches unceremoniously and cuts off his remarks.
"He represents a lot of things. He is also associated with sex and resurrection, even the healing touch of the near dead," Ziva explains, holding up her hand which glows faintly for a moment through the white rubber gloves before fading dimly. "In voodoo, Baron Samedi is rather fond of the fleshly desires."
Even Abby looks at her differently. Not exactly horrified, but with a certain amount of fear, respect and awe. By clearing his throat, Gibbs cuts the silence that has fallen unto the evidence garage.
"What you're saying is that Madison and Shane Clarke were sacrificed?" He sounds doubtful; Ziva envies that disbelief. But past consequences have taught her to take voodoo very seriously. Unconsciously, she reaches for the Star of David around her neck. Magic oozes off her in invisible waves. Neither team member comments it, but they do not mention the sudden heat wave.
"Whether it was intentional or not, yes, they were used as human sacrifice. The angle of the slitted throat suggest it was done much like one would slit the neck of a goat in the ceremonies I have participated in."
"Participated in?" Tony asks, eyes wide, but is cut off by Gibbs' stare. The next thing comes harder; Ziva has never been disrespectful around the dead, not does she wish to begin now, but the Clarkes were sacrificed, much like a goat. The pictures of the Clarkes' slitted throats are spread out before them. Surprisingly, the blood spatter isn't enough to fill tow bodies.
The Israeli studies the photos intensely, and the team observes her. Abby is slowly getting the idea of what she's doing, because she says it before Ziva can. "There's not enough blood."
"Ducky figured that some of it had been washed away by the blood," Gibbs explains.
"No," Ziva disagrees. "Blood cannot leave the vévé without permission from the caster or the loa."
"You think the loa solidified itself," Ducky notes, having appeared out of nowhere; well, not exactly, but he has read her mind by telepathy. Although a bit intrusive, Ziva nods in agreement.
"And Baron Samedi just waltzed out of that alley?" Gibbs' negativity and disbelief are back. It's nice to have something be dependable.
"That's the only thing that would require such big sacrifices. I do not believe the caster would be able to summon Baron Samedi by accident, even if the blood happened to touch the vévé. So, yes, Baron Samedi must have been there and then left. With the caster," Ziva supplies. "And he took some of the blood with him."
"How do you know he didn't just kill the caster? From what you're saying, this Samedi sounds powerful and isn't bound to fill three wishes or anything to get his freedom," Tony points out.
Ziva sends him a secretive smile. "Use your investigative skills, Tony. There's no body."
"'Could've taken it with him," Abby argues.
Ziva shrugs. "Highly doubtful. Why kill the caster? He could just walk away."
"How long does the ceremony work?" Gibbs asks out of the blue.
"I am not certain, but a day at most. The majority of loas resident in the invisible realm of voodoo spirits, so does Baron Samedi. The chances of finding the caster with him are strong, but we have little time," Ziva answers.
"Why keep the blood?" Timothy asks from the corner. He is looking paler by the minute but has somehow detained himself from bolting the room in direction for the restrooms. Or the nearest trash can.
"I do not know," Ziva says while she shrugs, eyeing Abby for a possible answer, but not even the goth dhampir seems to know why. As if summoning the Baron hasn't been enough. "But whoever summoned him to this realm is not an amateur," the Israeli informs them, traveling her slender fingers along the lines of the photo. The white edges seems the safest.
"McGee, you got anything?" Gibbs proceeds to ask. Timothy McGee, their brightest and tech-savvy junior agent, looks dumbfounded for merely a moment, then replies.
"No, boss. Neither or the Clarkes have presented themselves to me, not since the last time."
Ziva raises a brow at this, not having known that their team leader had the medium sense the scene for spirits last night. Even though he looks more rested today, they have not shown themselves to him. Which is unusual in itself; their cases often lead to gruesome murders, not a peaceful deaths, more than often leading to spirits whose souls have not left this realm due to unfinished business.
"DiNozzo, when is the witness due to meat up with a sketch artist?"
"Er, she'll be here by 1100 hours, boss. I'm using Katherine, just in case," Tony reveals, smiling smugly. Ziva doesn't doubt that this Katherine has fallen into Tony's bed more than once. However, she is more certain that their casual dalliances are just that: casual.
They quietly get back to their jobs, sorting evidence. The evidence garage personnel – "baggie bunnies" as Tony refers to them – hasn't clocked in yet. Ziva suspects that Gibbs has cleared the area and thus, the situation, with Jenny. If not, they'll find out.
Abby snakes her way to Ziva, corners her and thus cuts her off from the rest, still while sorting through the different pieces of evidence, most going into the 'for further analysis' pile. If it wasn't a murder investigation, Ziva would have laughed at her fascination with evidence. Her behavior is odd, but she has only been on the NCIS team for three months, not nearly enough to pin Abby down to a simple conclusion. She's not sure that years will give her any hints how to handle the gothic, lovable character. Today is no exception; she is wearing a black skirt with a lacy hemline and her trademark plateau boots to a simple black tee with a white skull that has a pink knotted bow. For anybody else, she would have looked twice, but it suits Abby well. As much as she is part vampire, Ziva could never imagine Abby actually hurting anybody.
"Does it have to be a practitioner of voodoo that did this?" she whispers, her eyes cautious. The question startles Ziva. Abby suddenly looks uncertain and regretful.
"Yes," Ziva states bluntly. "Why?"
Abby partly ignores her, lowering her voice even more so. "Could a necromancer have done this?" She gestures o the crime scene photos.
Ziva swallows; not out of dread or doubt, but hesitation and confusion. "I guess. But there aren't many necromancers in DC. Animators, a handful, but on a global plan, the necromancy is nearly extinct. It's not something that you become, it's in your bloodline."
"Like your healing touch," Abby supplies, a little less insecure.
"Yes," Ziva assures. Before she can ask the cause of Abby's questions, the goth has disappeared. Shrugging, the Israeli continues the work, hoping that Abby will explain later. Or perhaps not at all.
Tony knows it has been ages since he has seen Katherine "Kay" Monroe. They shared a night together about two years ago, but then she sorta slid out of his life. He didn't pay much attention to it, and the next week he's forgotten about her. The fond memories, so to speak, remains. The tall, fair-haired brunette is an excellent artist and a consultant who's paid by the hour. She has long legs and the palest eyes Tony has ever seen in a human. They are only a few shades from being the white surrounding them. She has always managed to capture every detail with her pencil, but as far as Tony knows, she is a hundred percent human. Or, maybe a little fairy blood in her, but who hasn't?
He'd had the time to check in with the psych domain before he met up with Kay and Mr. Briggs in the conference room. Grace is a lovely woman, but like Ducky, he doesn't like people prying into his mind. He likes Jimmy, though. They had nothing to tell him about the case. They are up in their asses in fortune telling this time a year, so Tony made a quick exit. Grace didn't seem to mind.
"Katherine," he says out-of-breath as he sees the haloed woman sitting in one of the nondescript chairs that always seems to be missing when needed. Her pale eyes find his and for a moment, he shivers in delight. He does, however, manage to suppress it.
"Anthony," she greets, her smile widening. "I'm surprised you called."
"Well, you are the greatest sketch artist I know," Tony admits with a flamboyantly ass-kissing smile. He doesn't mind Kay thinking he's proper material for another evening.
"Eidetic memory will do that to you," she says, grinning. She truly does look like some sort of angel, but they're fairytale material, so how would Tony know. He was actually a bit disappointed when he joined Neutral Controlled Investigations of Supernaturalism and discovered that angels didn't exist. That theory hasn't been proven wrong in the three years he has been working here. Well, hotness can blind.
"Even if it's not yours?" he points out and she shrugs casually. He's right, her eidetic memory has nothing to do with what Mr. Briggs saw. Which from the interview yesterday and the information they have uncovered since might be a god-like spirit. God, how morbid. Suddenly, Tony is confronted with his own mortality. Well, almost. Nobody says you can't flirt while doing that.
"Kay, you know what to do?"
The young ex-barista looks reproachfully at him with a "did you really just as me that" gaze, then rolls her eyes. That moment, she really looks like a stubborn teen, and god knows, he's dealt with plenty of those lately. He throws his hands up in the surrender gesture.
"It isn't the first time I have helped law enforcement, Tony. Just because my record is spotted," Kay says with a spark in her eyes that says she ain't kidding.
"Mr. Briggs will be here shortly, so prepare your instruments," Tony replies, sugarcoating the words and awaiting a fist. No, Kay isn't date material, but she sure as well doesn't joke around. The punch lands softly on his shoulder, breaking her skin.
"Ouch! You go to the gym or something?" the twenty-something asks baffled, staring at her bruising knuckles.
"I warned you," Tony responds, a mischievous smile on his face. Flirting comes naturally to him, always has. And her smile is genuine. The downside (and advantage) to being a wer is being able to scent every lie, every fib. Every untrue intention. He wishes that he had a switch to turn it off, but he has learnt to deal with it. Everybody lies.
"Well, make it up to me," Angelica says, thrusting her hips against his, her pale eyes forcing his to meet hers. An utterly charming set of feature cross her face and her voice is suddenly all suggestive. Definitely hasn't seen that coming.
They are interrupted by a junior agent that has brought Mr. Briggs up. Which, honestly, Tony is kind of glad for, because he wouldn't have known how to reply. It feels weird to wake up in your co-worker's lap and then proceed to flirt endlessly with another woman. And, no, it wasn't like your mind our of the gutter, he tells himself. No, he'd accidentally fallen asleep next to Ziva and somehow woke up in his wolf form. Safe to say it had been an awkward morning after. Ziva took it cooly, mostly because she knew that if startled, he might have changed back – naked. No, he'd nearly scooped her over in his sleep, unintentionally. A bear-sized wolf takes up much of the room in a queen-size bed. Somehow he'd never pick Ziva for a cuddler. She isn't. The surprise had been two-sided. But Apache seemed to blame him. During the night, the dog had resorted to his basket.
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