A/N: Thanks for all the comments, favorites, & follows! To answer a few questions: both the Professor & Sybil are Gifted; Prof is a touch-reader, Sybil clairvoyant, Sight/Sensitive, & spirit-talking. Yes, Gifts can be enhanced any number of ways, including location & ancestry & other Gifts. There won't be any teeth extraction - that scene in the original book was just silly: NO ONE gets a wisdom tooth pulled with just one shot of local anesthetic & one pull, then gets up with no ill effects at all.

(Edit: aaand evidently the title ain't the problem & it's happening to other tales. Man.)

On with the tale!

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"Joe!"

Frank twisted on his knees as Joe collapsed, convulsing. Frank grabbed him —

— was grabbed and thrown —

Somehow he hung on, one hand splayed against the rough wooden floor, the other gripping Joe's arm in smoke-filled darkness that stank of blood, unwashed bodies, and burnt meat.

Darkness?

His head felt thick and dizzy. He was on his knees, surrounded by enormous dark trees and grinning men in bronze breast-plates. The only light was the huge fire in the middle of the clearing, the only sounds the screams of children and harsh voices shouting commands, all in languages he didn't know. When Frank looked down, Joe was —

Blood…too much blood…

It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

Wrenching his gaze away, his grip tight on Joe's arm, Frank squeezed his eyes shut. Focus. Focus. With his other hand, he groped frantically for the wooden floor and the grainy charred knothole he'd been poking at. It had to be there, somewhere, anywhere — there. His hand hit the rough-edged knot; a splinter jabbed into his finger. He jerked reflexively, only to fumble into a puddle of melted wax, still oozing and hot…

Without hesitation, Frank grabbed for the candle that he knew was there.

His hand landed on flame and hot wax.

Pain scorched his palm. With a yell, he dragged on Joe's arm and slung his brother around with a crunch of broken glass —

With a yell, Joe lashed out, then jerked up, staring wide-eyed at his brother. Frank let go, and Joe nearly fell face-first to the floor, only to catch himself and sway over his hands. As the rush of adrenaline drained away, Frank sat there, shaking from reaction, his head in his hands, watching as Joe stared at his own shaking hands, both brothers breathing hard in the aftermath of terror and dream.

"You okay?" Frank glanced down at the broken glass: rough shiny pebbles, not shards. Tempered. Thank God, or else both his and Joe's hands would've been shredded. He looked at his own hand: splattered with wax with a reddened tender spot on the base of his palm and another sore point pricked with blood from a wood splinter.

Brushing at his hands and the glass, Joe nodded.

"What did you do?"

"Not…Thatcher. Definitely…not Thatcher."

"Joe. What. Did. You. Do?!"

Resisting the urge to shake the story out of his brother, Frank waited, as he carefully worked the splinter out of his hand. After another minute or so, when Joe still hadn't said anything, Frank slapped the notebook against the floor in front of his brother. Joe startled at the noise, blinking at Frank and finally seeing him.

"Spit it out," Frank said. "What happened?"

Bit by bit, he dragged the story out of Joe, jotting it down in neat shorthand. About midway through, Joe finally shook off the mental haze he was in, giving more and more detail without Frank needing to prompt him. Finally Joe faltered, and shook his head.

Frank bit his lip. An execution. That was what Joe dragged them into. "All that from residue. But you're not a touch-reader. I'm not. What is that thing?"

"Tag said the cup was Celtic." Joe made a face. "But those were Roman soldiers. They didn't do human sacrifice."

Frank stared towards the broken display case. "In a way, they did. They'd chop off their prisoners' hands and feet and let them bleed out. Sacer, they called it. Giving them to the gods." That one detail convinced him that the vision — whatever it was — had been real. "I don't get it. Why use the Grail?"

But now Joe stared at him. "You…you saw that. You were there."

"We weren't anywhere," Frank said firmly. "We were here. It was a hallucination. A waking dream. Like what Rathbone pulled." Rathbone had been a rogue 'path, and had engulfed Frank in pure nightmares when he'd rescued Nancy Drew that past summer.

"But it was real!"

"Joe."

"How did the thieves do something like that? That thing can't be alive. It can't be. No, wait, it can't be the thieves. They wouldn't waste energy leaving a trap like that behind. But how…?"

"You're babbling," Frank said. "Get a grip already, or you'll get a bucket of snow dumped down your back." It was the quickest way to bring a mage-Gift back to the here-and-now: a sudden, overwhelming shock of sensation. Not that Frank ever took advantage of that — not on people who weren't his brother, anyway.

Shaking his head, Joe rubbed at his temples. "Sorry. I couldn't get anything else. No signature, no other magic, nothing. The residue's just too strong. If it is residue."

"Well, I can't see thieves bothering to set up something like that. We agree there." With a groan, Frank got to his feet and went over to a window, opening it just enough to scoop some snow off the sill and apply it to his palm to soothe it. "Like you said, it's too much work and no point to it. Wiping the signature would've been tons easier."

"Maybe," Joe said slowly, "they knew what that thing could do and used it to cover their tracks."

It was one of the ways to hide magic: bleach it out with other magic or another strong energy field. Frank said nothing, thinking.

"Which leaves the problem of how the thieves managed to grab it. If that Grail can shove you into dream-state like that…"

"Just assume they figured that part out and focus on finding it. Up to checking the rest of the building?" When Joe nodded, Frank helped him up, shouldering the duffel bag as Joe got balanced on his crutch.

"We should check with the local cops, later," Joe said. "Just to let them know the Professor's hired us to look into it."

"Feeling insanely overconfident today, huh?"

"Yeah, well, it's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it."

Joe snarking: the world was back to normal. They worked their way back towards the staircase, stopping in each room to make notes and diagram the layout, examining everything both physically and magically for anything out of place, no matter how small. Frank kept a weather-eye on Joe, noting every time Joe took too long to respond or got distracted. Maybe he should do the snow-down-the-back, just in case.

Though that would wreck havoc with the wooden floors. Frank didn't want to upset the Professor, after all.

Finally, when they reached the ground floor again, Frank steered his brother into the restroom to splash water on their faces and to get a bandage on his own palm. The water was ice-cold, clearing the last of the haze from Frank's head, and Joe was noticeably more alert.

Not that it mattered. The ground floor was clear and cleaned out, save for the left-behind photographs and the souvenirs in the front case, denuded mannikins, and display signs. But Frank and Joe went through the same meticulous routine of note-taking, diagram-making, and photographs in each room, no matter what. Entire cases sometimes hung on one solitary piece of evidence that others had overlooked.

In the farthest room from the entrance, a large free-standing triptych had also been left behind: three wooden panels covered with a gaudy painting of a naked man and woman (certain body parts tastefully obscured by badly-painted foliage) sitting on either side of a winged satyr with oversized horns. The satyr's face was partially obscured by an inverted pentagram with its horns forming the top two points, but the satyr's "certain parts" were most definitely not obscured.

Pausing in his notes, Frank couldn't decide if the satyr was supposed to be male or female. Its genitalia were obvious, but the thing also had prominent breasts and a rounded belly that looked pregnant. Writing down that description would make his notes sound like certain notorious movie theaters in San Francisco. Frank decided to leave the details to Joe's photographs. Much easier. Especially if Aunt Gertrude ever found their files on this case — Frank could legitimately shove the explanation off onto Joe.

"I'd love to hear Tag explain that," Joe said.

"You and me both," Frank said.

"I don't get it, though." Joe tapped a wall plaque. "This room was a timeline of what people thought witches looked like. Masks, statues, costumes — why steal Halloween costumes?"

"You're right. It doesn't make sense."

"And as much stuff as Rowbotham had — how'd they get it all out of here without being seen or heard? It'd take too long. Too much energy to keep up."

"No magic, I take it."

"Absolutely nothing." Frowning, Joe stared around the room. "I keep checking for traces, and there's just nothing."

"The Grail interfering again?"

Joe shook his head.

"Wiped?"

"That'd still leave signs that something had been here."

"Vladimir's didn't." Vladimir had been…someone…they'd tangled with shortly after arriving in San Francisco.

"Vlad just hid them really good, that's all. Once we figured it out, it was obvious."

"So I'll ask the obvious question," Frank said. "How?"

Joe slowly shook his head again. "Maybe we're over-thinking this. Take all magic out of the equation. Forget it even exists. And ask the same question."

Frank looked out the window towards the stream and the shops on the other side. "It is rather isolated. So no one would necessarily hear a break-in. The thieves could've brought a truck up — or two — and loaded everything in. But driving it through the streets…someone had to see it."

"Unless folks are used to trucks coming and going at odd hours." Joe was staring into space. "With all the farms around here. I mean, we had trucks going by all the time in Bayport."

"But didn't the Professor have security out here? You'd think with the Grail, he would."

"Small-town stupidity. Like Aunt Gertrude and the back door."

Frank smiled. After she'd moved in, Aunt Gertrude had never locked the back door of the Hardy's home, despite many warnings from Dad — to her, small town meant you could trust your neighbors. Then someone had broken in and tossed Dad's office, and Aunt Gertrude had turned unreasonably paranoid for weeks afterward. "Don't forget human cupidity," Frank said. "Bribery. The thieves paid someone off."

"We're also forgetting this is part of a larger pattern, with all the other thefts," Joe said. "Maybe we should look into the other thefts."

"Don't complicate things. We're just here for the Professor's collection. Stay focused."

"But if they used magic for those thefts, they might not have been as careful. Or they haven't been careful, period, and it's either the Grail's influence here, or they haven't used magic, period. And that's assuming it's the same thieves."

With a sigh, Frank rubbed at his forehead. Joe was right — that was the problem. If it was connected, the whole thing was too big for two independent detectives to handle. An international ring, maybe. Such things were usually only solved with cooperation between Interpol and police agencies across the globe. But the pieces to their part might be intertwined with the larger whole. Might.

Focus.

"Basement next." Joe cracked a grin. "I'm still feeling something down there. I'm sort-of-maybe-possibly-almost certain it's not a demon, though."

"Just for that, you go first."

"You're all heart. If it is a demon, I'm coming back to haunt you, Exorcist-style."

"That'll be hard to do if I'm dead, too."

"Yeah, right, bring logic into it." Joe eased down the narrow stone stairs; even Frank had to watch his footing, as the stone was worn smooth and slick. "What is it about spooky stuff that they have to use dark rooms in the basement? I mean, if I was a witch, I'd be using my powers in Hawaii. Or I'd at least turn the heat up."

"Joe." Frank tapped a wooden sign on the wall:

The Dungeon

Inquisition Chamber

Witch Trials: Crime & Punishment.

"This must be where the Professor kept the torture stuff," Frank said, then immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

The grin vanished. Joe stared at the sign, then slumped back against the wall.

"C'mon." Frank nudged him, when the silence didn't let up. "It's all been stolen, remember. There's nothing here."

"Then what am I picking up?" Joe snapped, then stopped and breathed out hard. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Frank said quietly. "I thought you knew. A good quarter of that catalog was medieval torture stuff."

"You mean all that weird metal stuff I had no clue about," Joe muttered. "Jugs filled with pee, naked paintings, whips and chains — is it just me or is our stuffy British Professor just a bit kinky?"

Frank clasped his brother's shoulder. "It's not just you. And suddenly, I'm really, really glad Tag didn't come with us."

They moved though the archway and deeper into the chilly, damp basement. The air stank of mildew, the gray mortared-stone walls embedded with thick iron rings with dangling chains. Another archway in the far wall led to a cramped room, its ceiling crossed with thick, smoke-blackened wooden beams, and the floor's mortared with oddly-carved stones of dirt-smeared white, gray, and black. Display signs and empty glass cases marked where the exhibits had been, along with discarded mannikins lying on the floor. Then Frank's foot hit a rough spot and he glanced down: the stones were old tombstones, chipped and worn to near illegibility.

"This really isn't making sense," Frank murmured as he sketched out a diagram of the room. He couldn't help a shudder; skeptic or not, the atmosphere was getting to him. "How'd they get it all out of here? Some of those things were pretty big. A rack can't be easy to dismantle."

When he didn't get an answer, Frank looked back at his brother. Eyes closed, Joe had stopped dead center of the first room, hands clenched, breathing hard.

Considering what the displays had been… "Blood magic, I take it?" Frank said.

To his surprise, Joe shook his head. "Sight." His voice was hoarse, ragged. "I'm seeing flickers out of the corner of my eyes. Not blood magic, not quite hauntings…just…it's like what happens when you step in wet sand, right at the surf line, right before your footprints disappear." Joe blew out a long breath, visibly trying to get control. "The stuff that was here — it had to be steeped in it. Blood, pain. All that. It left impressions in…in…everything. The physical's gone, but the stains are still here."

"I understand," Frank said.

"No. You're not getting it. That's all I'm seeing. There's no other magic, Frank. No signatures, nothing. Just that."

"The Grail residue's not hiding it?"

"No." Firm, definite. "It's not like upstairs. It's nothing like that. Nowhere near."

That was a relief. If the thieves weren't using magic, or if their magic was so weak that they didn't bother with it, Frank would happily deal with that. It would be a welcome change after some of the things he and Joe had handled these last few months.

"You, too, huh?" Joe said.

"Yeah." Something caught Frank's gaze, just past the doorway into the next basement room. "Joe — over here."

The wall was broken, chipped, and crumbling, revealing the gray stone of the basement to be concrete, not real stone. Something had been gouged out of the wall, leaving a rough-shaped hole larger than Frank's hand. He ran his fingers along the gouge, tracing the shape: a rough oval at the top, a smaller square below it, with a thick, crumbling line between…

"Frank…" Joe said, "…it looks like a key."

…as something cracked above their heads…

…and they were plunged into darkness.