Essential Listening: This World, by Selah Sue

At seven thirty, Grace shook Morgan awake, gently prised Garcia from her keyboard to refuel on leftover takeout and went to splash some cold water on her face, content in the knowledge that Reid was pouring coffee into everyone.

She caught her reflection in the mirror over the sink: she looked as tired as she felt. The circles below her eyes were beginning to take on a darker purple hue, and the rest of her face looked pale and drawn. Deciding that it would be a good idea to refresh her makeup before facing the team (who were annoyingly observant) or the local black market proprietors (who were always ready to capitalise on vulnerability) saw her, she retrieved her bag from the makeshift situation room they had created.

Eventually, she was going to have to give up and take her shift at the hotel, she knew, but not yet. No one else could safely navigate the internal politics of a goblin market – not without coming out a little bit changed. She wouldn't risk that. Apart from anything else, it would further complicate an already convoluted case. As it was, she was having to dance on the edge of things, just to keep the team from realising the true, rather unusual nature of what they were really investigating. It was rather trying – like running two investigations at once.

And never the twain shall meet, she thought, wryly.

By eight, the rest of the team were stumbling back in, not looking particularly well-rested. That was the trouble with taking a break: sometimes the exhaustion hit you harder than if you had worked straight through. She had caught up with Sergeant Barnum during the early morning shift change, and taken advantage of her local knowledge, so when Hotch called everyone together at half past eight, she was ready.

"I've got a line on some of the less reputable purveyors of pseudo-arcana from the locals," she announced, and ignored the vaguely tolerant 'you're crazy' looks they gave her. "I figure if he's buying supplies for his rituals, it'll be under the table, and they might remember someone with such a flamboyantly arrogant character."

"Good idea," said Hotch. "You have the best operational knowledge of this kind of unsub," he said, somehow managing not to make that sound weird. "But you can't be in the field alone. You don't have your gun certification."

"I'll babysit," Morgan offered. "If I don't stretch my legs I'm gonna crash."

"You should go back to the hotel and sleep," said Reid, but Morgan shook his head.

"Nah, man. I napped, you didn't. I got this."

"Good," said Hotch. "Prentiss, Rossi, head to the coroner, see if they've had a chance to look at the most recent victims. JJ, I want you to keep on at the media – we really don't want them to catch a whiff of the stranger parts of this one."

"Yeah, we don't want a panic," said JJ, with a glance at Grace that told her the very strange profile was at the forefront of her mind.

"I want to take another look at the first couple of crime scenes, see if anything stands out, now we know more about our unsub. Reid?"

"Sure, let's do it," he said, running a tired hand across his face and grabbing his coat.

"Garcia?"

"I'll let you know when I have worked my magic, oh great and mighty leader!"

"Right," he replied, giving her the fondly baffled look she often inspired.

As he passed her, he met Grace's eyes, possibly intending to remind her not to take any undue risks – with her, or with Morgan. She gave him the slightest inclination of her head. She would do her best.

0o0

By one o'clock they had hit three out of the way, weird little hippy shops that he would never normally have visited and Derek's stomach was beginning to remind him that he had been up all night without any snacks or breakfast. None of the proprietors had fitted or recognised their profile among their regulars, and he was beginning to wonder if Grace was wrong about the whole need for local recognition thing and their unsub was ordering his paraphernalia online.

He glanced at the woman in the passenger seat. She was quiet today, probably in response to his prickliness over the (in his opinion) highly unorthodox profile from the day before. He still didn't really know what Hotch was playing at, letting an agent run a profile solo, like that. Sure, they all had their own specialisms, and that brought all sorts of insights to a profile – but that was the point: together, their profile was better informed and more useful. When people worked in isolation they were more likely to miss the mark entirely – and that was something both Hotch and Pearce knew.

It wasn't that he didn't trust her judgement, either, and so far, she had been right on the money. It was just a bizarre decision for either of them to have made. He glanced over at her again. She was gazing out of the window, one finger absently tracing the journey between the last shop and the next. She looked tired, but no more so than he felt. He wondered how she was sleeping. Peach Tree City hadn't been that long ago, and one of the recurring problems with their little professional family was that everyone came back earlier than they should. Fleetingly, he thought of Elle Greenaway, and carefully packed away the pang of regret that accompanied the memories he had of his friend, as he always did. Whatever she had done, she had been his partner, first and foremost.

Derek shook his head at himself. No one on their team was a paragon of dealing with things they didn't want to. But still, Pearce was a friend.

He cleared his throat.

"It's okay," she said, before he could speak, and he shot her a look. "I didn't take it personally."

Derek chuckled. "You don't even know what I was about to say."

"Yes, I do." She put on a serious expression that he could only half make out from the corner of his eye – an impression of him, he realised. "'Sorry about yesterday, Pearce. I just don't get why you and Hotch are all cagey about this one'," she mimicked, in a terrible Chicago-adjacent accent.

"Don't profile me," he warned, though mostly he was amused.

"Back at you."

He chuckled. "My eyebrows don't move like that," he said, after moment.

Pearce scoffed. "Yes they do. They're like angry caterpillars having a fight."

Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached over and gently punched her arm, aware that it hadn't been long out of plaster. "Itchin' powder, Pearce."

They smiled at one another. The next few minutes passed in a much friendlier silence than before.

"I know it's weird," she said, while Derek waited for a dude in a particularly shitty Volvo to pull out and merge with traffic. "And I know it's not how we generally do things, but I've seen this before."

"And Hotch just went for that?"

Pearce nodded. "He wasn't particularly happy about it."

"So, this other case…" he asked, letting the question hang in the air.

"I'm not really supposed to talk about it," said Pearce.

Derek had the sudden impression that there was a vast, unconquerable distance between them. Curiously, it didn't feel like a thing that had just opened up. Maybe it had always been there, just beneath the surface, but invisible. He wasn't sure; what he was sure of, was that she was lying – and he said so.

She visibly stiffened, throwing her gaze out of the other window for a moment. Derek had the peculiar sense that the gulf between them was widening and he had the urge to backtrack, but he didn't. Trust was earned, and he couldn't be doing with his best friends lying to him. That sort of thing never ended well – especially when everyone on this team regularly had to put their lives in each other's hands.

"It was a bad case," she said, at last, and Derek allowed himself to relax, glad his gamble had paid off. "And not just – I mean, personally, as well as professionally."

He pulled over, to her surprise. They were still a few minutes out from the next address on their list. Perhaps guessing what he was about, Pearce's body language was rapidly closing off; a defence mechanism Derek recognised from his own repertoire.

"I'm not going to talk about it," she said tightly.

"You know I don't let go of a thing," he said gently.

"I know," she said, something that might ordinarily be described as a smile travelling across her lips. "But this is not something…" She pressed her lips together into a thin, unhappy line. "You're one of my best friends, Derek, but… This is not a thing I can do. Ever."

She met his gaze, then, and Derek was astonished to see a kind of naked fear in her eyes. It was the kind of look he associated with victims of serious trauma, and not something he had ever really expected to see on the face of a colleague (despite the number of appalling things that had happened to them). She hadn't even looked like that after Georgia. He watched her for a moment, and thought about the armour he had built around the awful things that had been done to him as a kid – and about how impossible that had been to talk about with the other members of his team. How he still hadn't, really.

"Okay," he said, at last, and she looked so immensely relieved that he felt he had probably made the right decision – for the time being, at least. "But you know I got your back, though, right?"

Pearce nodded, looking at her knees. "I know it."

For a moment she looked as vulnerable as she had when Dodds had been dragging her out of that barn in Georgia. Derek decided not to push it. "Okay," he said, and started the engine. "So," he began, as they pulled back out into traffic, "you reckon this will pay off, or…"

"Or am I sending us all round the houses for no good reason?" she finished, and it was almost snappish.

Fear, Derek realised. It was a tricky thing to let go of.

"I didn't say that."

She muttered something that sounded a lot like 'Yeah, but you thought it loud enough,' and Derek was immediately put in mind of the slightly childish way Reid responded when he was seriously pissed. He thought about Vegas and West Bune, and the curious smell of gunpowder that collected around her sometimes when she was mad. He chose to let it go.

"I'm right about this, Morgan," she said shortly. "I just can't tell you why."

"That is not very helpful," he pointed out. Hell, he was tired, too. Pearce tutted, but he continued before she could interrupt. "But I trust you, so – let's do this."

They didn't speak again until they were out of the SUV and crossing the small parking lot. Derek stepped back to let a young mother with a pram navigate past them, and Pearce touched his arm.

"Thanks," she said, and somehow he realised this was a sort of contract. He wouldn't chase her secrets, and she wouldn't chase his – at least, not in a way either of them would know about.

"You got it. Buy me lunch and we're square," he added, which earned him the flash of a smile.

It lasted for a whole block, then her whole demeanour changed, the moment she set foot in the store. She knew it had, because Morgan threw her a very peculiar look, and she managed to murmur, "Let me do the talking," to him before striding right up to the woman on the till.

Derek let her. Given how weird she was being about the whole case, he was curious about where this would go. He followed her, aware that she was counting on his narrow tolerance of her secretive weirdness to continue for just a bit longer. He just wished he knew why.

"Good afternoon," she said, brightly, flashing her ID to the woman. "Your manager in?"

"Uh, sure," she said, eyeing the FBI badge with some surprise. "Hey, Chuck, you got a visitor."

Morgan watched as the woman's eyes narrowed very slightly on Pearce's face, as if she was reading something there that he didn't know about. Then her eyes slid over to him. For a moment, she looked puzzled, then her lips curled pleasantly and Derek grinned. She was cute, under the layers of cobweb lace and torn clothing, with dark hair and dark eyes that flashed over him from behind her rather gothic makeup.

"Can I help you?" she purred, and he shook his head.

"I'm with her," he replied, nodding towards Pearce, who was apparently fascinated by a stand of crystals on the counter.

"What is it, Xandra?"

Both agents looked up as a spare, wiry, middle-aged man stuck his head out of the door behind the counter. Every instinct Morgan had immediately told him that this guy was all kinds of shady.

A fence, maybe, or a small time dealer.

He glanced at Pearce, who had evidently clocked the same atmosphere of skeeze clinging to the guy.

"Chuck," she said, with a cold sort of smile. "Right?"

Chuck looked both of them up and down, unimpressed, and barely glanced at their badges.

"I have some questions, if that's alright?"

"You better come into the back," said Chuck, glancing at Xandra.

Grace managed to communicate that she wanted Morgan to stay out front with the store assistant, while she shook down the owner.

Alright, he thought, and leaned against the counter, returning Xandra's smile. Trust. I've got your back.

She leaned against it, too. "So, sugar, what can I do for you?"

0o0

"No, I'm sorry, I don't recognise your description," said Chuck, with just enough smugness to tell Grace that he was lying and he thought she was stupid enough to believe him.

"It doesn't sound like any of your customers?" she pressed.

"No, not remotely. You know," he added, going to candour, "Someone that over-the-top would stand out. I'm pretty sure I'd be able to recall it."

"You have CCTV?" she asked, though she knew there was little real point, given what magic could do to a system like that.

"No, sweetie," he said. "We have a couple of dummies and a mirror, but that's it. If I'm honest, we don't have a lot of trouble."

"Mm-hmm," she said, nodding along with him. They probably didn't – or, at the very least, if someone did cause trouble they were unlikely to try it twice. "And you wouldn't have any idea about the sale of items of a more unusual nature?" she added, testing the waters.

"Like what?" he asked, his eyes darting to the right – towards the large racks of warehouse shelving that lined the wall.

"Specifically, software."

"We have a teach-yourself-massage program that's very popular with the ladies," he said, running his eyes over her. "Though that one is better with company. Aromatherapy and Reiki, too."

"I was thinking something a little more practical," she replied, ignoring the ogling.

"Not sure I follow you," said Chuck.

"I'll bet."

"Say, can I interest you in a luck charm?" he said, turning and opening a drawer. He pulled out a small, silver chain with a crescent moon and a sun charms hanging from small loops, a narrow purple ribbon wound around it, from clasp to clasp. "I mean, a pretty lady like you would have no need for a love charm, I'm guessing. And in your line of work, you could probably do with all the help you can get." He dangled the chain in front of her. "Right? On the house."

The chain looked entirely inoffensive – the kind of thing a teenage girl would particularly adore. A sweet odour clung to it, along with the unmistakable fragrance of liquorice.

Grace raised her eyes from the bracelet to the man proffering it without comment.

"No? Sure would look pretty around your lovely wrist."

She just kept on gazing at him, which was beginning to unnerve him. A thin sheen of sweat was breaking out on Chuck's upper lip and forehead.

"Maybe – maybe not," he said, and turned to put the bracelet back in the drawer, but before he could, the ribbon burst into flame.

He yelped and dropped it. "What the hell?" His head snapped around and he stared at Grace, nostrils flaring and eyes widening.

That's right, Grace thought. That was me. You're catching up.

"You're going to regret that!"

"Sweet flag and liquorice?" she asked, in an altogether different tone, allowing the door behind her to swing closed and lock with an audible click. "Cheap, nasty trick, that one, Chuck."

"I don't know what you mean," he retorted, but his eyes were darting left and right, trying to find a way out.

"Purple silk and a silver chain, too. Powerful stuff. Was there an incantation, as well, or were you hoping I'd just slip it on my wrist and bend to your will?"

"I don't – I don't –"

"And you appear to have a whole drawer full of trinkets that reek of compulsion oil. Whatever have you been doing with all those binding charms?"

Grace hadn't moved a muscle, but Chuck had been backing away, edging toward one particular corner. The moment he went for the staff he had concealed behind his desk, Grace reached out her hand and twisted it; the staff gave a shriek, like steam out of a kettle, and splintered into three, ragged pieces.

Chuck gave a yell, and tried to reach for another drawer. Grace didn't wait to find out what was inside it. All at once, every box on every shelf of the warehouse began to shake, violently. Anything leaning against something else fell with a series of crashes, moving closer and closer to Chuck, who was pressed hard against the wall.

"Who the fuck are you, lady?"

"I gave you my name," she said (though she had been careful not to – he wasn't about to argue right now), and the quality of her voice had changed, now, as though it was coming from somewhere deeper than simply from inside her chest.

"You can't tell me some FBI bitch is an old world, instinctive hag!" he shouted, red with anger and not a little trepidation. "That badge is fake!"

"It isn't," she replied, calmly. "But this is not the only name I've gone by."

"Yeah, yeah!" he spat, but she could tell by the sweat and the darting eyes that he was scared. Theatrics had a way of doing that to a coward like Chuck, which was why she had used them. "So, what's your other name?"

Grace told him, and all the colour drained from his face.

"No! No don't hurt me! I'll do anything!"

Fixing him with a cold stare that gave him no hope whatsoever, Grace allowed the power she was harnessing dissipate harmlessly. The sudden stillness seemed overloud and disconcerting.

"Wh-wh-what do you want?"

"Honesty. I am an FBI agent – and I am a witch, so you can't fob me off with the patchouli and candles routine. I want to know if you have a customer who matches the description you gave me. You can nod, if that helps," she added, and Chuck nodded fervently.

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Nothing!" he exclaimed. "He comes in every other month, buys the usual range of paraphernalia." He pulled a face and Grace recognised the same professional disdain she had felt for the unsub. "And a bunch of showy, tourist crap. The stuff people buy when they want to make themselves look fancy."

"Name?"

"No, I don't know!" he cried. "I promise. I don't like him – I – he gives me the creeps. I make Xandra serve him."

"Of course you do," Grace grumbled, with disgust. "I want your sales records – all of them."

Chuck began to sputter, but Grace raised an eyebrow and he fell silent.

"I also want free samples of all your technomancy equipment."

"It's a new line!" he assured her. "I only carry the one kind – USB sticks."

"What do they have on them?"

Chuck swallowed. "Um…"

"You wouldn't be about to lie to me, would you?" she asked. "Because we were getting somewhere, Chuck, and that would hurt my feelings."

"Compulsion spells!" he told her hurriedly. "The customer can – can alter it however they want, if they can code."

Grace was silent for a moment. It wasn't a huge surprise; the kind of people who ran and shopped at a goblin market weren't the kind of people who worried about things like consent, after all, but the bald, careless audacity of it was staggering. She spent thirty seconds reminding herself that an FBI agent shouldn't kill a member of the public, even if they were peddling what were essentially rape and murder aids, and that actually she did want to keep her job.

Deciding the amount of paperwork Chuck having an unexpected heart attack would generate would slow the case down at a really inconvenient time, she fixed him with a dark, dangerous look as he rummaged in a box on the desk. "Is the virus and the government wipe standard, or did he do that on his own?"

"The entry virus is standard – I've never thought about adding a wipe…"

"I'd advise you to continue not thinking about that," she said shortly. "Did our friend buy anything for containment?"

"Containment?" Chuck asked, evidently surprised. "What's the pretentious son of a bitch using it for?"

Grace ignored him. She didn't want to give him marketing ideas. "I'll need instructions on how to defuse the things, and I want to watch you do it. I'll know if you're trying to trick me – and given that my very close friend will be analysing them, believe me when I say if you try anything funny, or do something that hurts them I will make sure nobody ever finds you."

Chuck mopped his brow. "Yeah, uh – sure. Always happy to help law enforcement."

"Mm-hmm," she said. "You have an hour after I leave to make this place safe for my people to search – and if it isn't –"

"Yeah, I get the picture," he groused. "You're trying to shut me down. It's against my civil rights!"

"And what do you do with those bracelets?" Grace asked pointedly.

Chuck ran a finger along the inside of his collar. "Listen, lady, I just sell them –"

"Good. I want records of everyone you sold them to, as well. You're putting people in grievous danger."

"But it's not illegal," he said. "I mean, the cops can't police a place like this – they're not like your lot, in London."

Grace smiled – or, at least, bared her teeth. "I think the question you need to ask yourself, Chuck, is 'how sure am I that this FBI bitch is the only one?'"

0o0

By the time she had returned to the shop proper, she had a sheaf of receipts, the access code for the business accounts, two defused and highly dangerous USB sticks (one in an evidence bag, one in an envelope to send to Max), and a sense that she really wanted a shower in the near future. Having successfully put the fear of all the old gods into the creep (who was hopefully now hastily undoing a lot of unpleasant spell work), she was feeling rather pleased with herself.

It had been a long time since she had had the opportunity to show off a bit, and she was currently trying to convince herself that she wasn't having fun.

She found Xandra and Morgan leaning against opposite sides of the counter, heads close and talking low. There was a red woven cord looped around Morgan's right wrist, the other end of which Xandra was holding. His eyes were glazed over, which was not a good sign.

Grace grabbed the woman's wrist, non-too gently. "I would suggest you rethink your options," she said softly, in the woman's ear. "Undo it."

"This is not your business," Xandra hissed.

"This man is under my protection," said Grace, just as softly.

"You don't scare me," Xandra snarled.

"Then, dearie," said Grace, making a complicated sign in the air behind her, "you are more of a fool than you look."

She twisted her fingers, and all the light and sound left the room in a rush – like the deep breath before the storm. The only source of light remaining was a faint white haze, settling around the shop assistant like a cloak. Her head snapped back, making Xandra panic and twist in Grace's grip to counter the spell, but already ice crystals were forming on her skin. The air around her began to steam, as though she was suddenly somewhat colder than it. She began to shake, and then to moan in horror.

"Do you yield?"

Xandra managed to nod, and Grace judged this to be sufficient, so she released her.

"Who – the fuck – are you?" the woman asked, shivering. She rubbed her arms hard, trying to get some warmth back into them.

"Someone who doesn't like her friends being fucked with," said Grace, pointedly.

"Alright – alright –"

Grace felt the bonds that had coiled around Morgan loosen and then fall away – as they did so, the cord around his wrist disintegrated and turned to dust. Xandra shot Grace a look of pure terror and then fled into the back.

"Any luck?" Grace asked, as Morgan shook his head, looking rather dazed.

"Uh – yeah, she said she's seen our guy." He frowned, eyes still a little glassy. "I'm pretty sure she did. Yeah, she must have…"

"I think I should probably drive," said Grace, and took the keys out of Morgan's jean pocket without any resistance. "You look like the lack of sleep is catching up with you."

"Maybe, yeah…" he said vaguely, and followed Grace out of the shop.

She piloted him back to the SUV, thinking she ought to have a conversation with Sergeant Barnum about Chuck and Xandra, and their dubious wares. With any luck she would be able to head the team going in to shake the place down – and if they were really fortunate, Chuck would be as lax about submitting his taxes as he was about his employees and consumer ethics.

0o0

"Morgan okay?" JJ asked, as Prentiss came back in.

"Had to actually put him in bed," she replied, pulling a face. "I think he was asleep on his feet the whole time."

JJ's eyebrows shot upwards. "Holy crap."

"Yeah, I've never seen him like that, said Prentiss worriedly. "Maybe he's coming down with something."

Aaron glanced at Pearce; whatever she wasn't telling him about their morning spent scouring weird magic shops must have had an impact. He wondered whether she would volunteer the information, or he'd have to press her.

"So, I've been talking to the bank two doors down from Rossetti's Magic Emporium," Rossi began, but Reid interrupted.

"Wait, they actually called it that?" he asked, pulling a face.

"Yeah, I know," said Pearce, glancing up from the records she and Reid had been combing through. "They're not even trying."

"What?" JJ asked.

"Oh, the slang in the – er – occult community for an untrustworthy shop," said Grace, sending Aaron a scant glance, "is a Goblin Market."

"Christina Rossetti wrote a poem called The Goblin Market," Reid added. "It's pretty famous."

"The owner's name is Charles Plumb," Pearce remarked. "Piece of work, that one. Not someone I'd imagine having a sophisticated sense of humour, but I guess you never know."

"Anyway," said Rossi, tolerantly. "The bank has CCTV, and I got this off their server for last Wednesday."

He showed them a still photograph of a man in a long black coat, striding along the street with several anonymous bags of the type Rossetti's carried in one hand, and a dark, silver-tipped walking stick in the other. His hair was longer, tied back neatly behind his head, and he had a goatee – though the rest of the face was too fuzzy to make out properly.

"That's got to be him," said Prentiss.

"Yes," Grace agreed, pointing at the bag. "Those bulges at the bottom of the bag are definitely altar candles."

"Wednesday," Reid mused, flicking through the stack of receipts Pearce had brought back. "What's the timestamp for that?"

"14.53," Rossi told him.

"Not many customers that afternoon, thankfully," said Reid. "Here –"

He pointed one out to Pearce, who cast a slightly more informed eye over the list of purchases and nodded.

"Paid in cash, bought candles, liquorice root, sweet flag, something called compulsion oil, a decorative obsidian skull, an anathame –"

"A what?" JJ asked.

"It's a kind of sacred dagger," murmured Grace, running her finger down the list.

"– seven silver-lined, glass trinket boxes, seven large smoky quartz crystals, seven 'portable compulsion charms', whatever that means –"

"The USB sticks," said Aaron, turning it over in his hand. Garcia had already cloned it.

It was insane to think that one little thing could cause so much damage.

"And a pack each of dragon's blood, mullein, yew, cedar and wormwood," Reid finished.

"Actual dragon's blood? From an actual dragon?" Prentiss asked.

"It's the resin of various tropical tree species," Reid explained.

"Uh, there's a lot of sevens on that list," JJ observed. "So, seven victims?"

"Most likely," Rossi confirmed, and various people who had not been listening to Pearce groaned.

Aaron asked, "Is there a name?"

"No, just initials: DB," said Prentiss, reading over Reid's shoulder.

"DB, DB," Reid murmured. "I've seen a name with those initials… yes!" He pulled out another receipt from an earlier date. "Draven Blaize."

"Draven Blaize?" JJ echoed. "That's gotta be bogus, surely?"

"Undoubtedly," said Rossi. He nudged Pearce's elbow. "What?"

She was gazing at the CCTV image, a deep frown furrowing her brow. "The cane," she said, but didn't elaborate further.

"You think it could be a concealed weapon?" Rossi asked, but all Pearce said was 'Hmm'.

"What, like a sword cane?" Prentiss asked. "I wouldn't put it past this guy."

In the briefest of moments, when all the others were occupied with the documents and photograph, Reid and Pearce shared an eloquent look, and then both looked at Aaron. He inclined his head. They would have to find somewhere private to chat – without the rest of the team noticing. They were already beginning to comment on the slightly clandestine nature of his discussions with Pearce.

"Garcia, what have you got on the USB?" he asked, as the conversation had already devolved into an argument over the likelihood of them finding a sword.

"It's a fairly basic execution code," said Garcia, raising her head wearily above her laptop screen. "It piggybacks on the virus that he's using to stalk his victims."

Unusually sober, their faithful analyst was clearly running on fumes, now, but Aaron knew she was far too stubborn to leave her post just yet. He knew when not to push it.

"Kinda like the instructions for a computer game or an app," she continued. "The goal seems to be total suggestive control over an avatar, then a disgusting and entirely accurate pattern for all the cuts you would need to make to skin a human whole. And thank you all so much for the fact that I now know that."

"Total control? Compulsion oil?" Prentiss said. "It sounds like something out of the Satanic Panic."

"You're not wrong," Rossi mused. "I can't see that working, though."

"We still don't know how he got the victims to just lie down and let him murder them," said JJ.

"What even is compulsion oil?" Garcia asked, having surfaced from the digital world in need of distraction.

"It's largely Calamus root," Pearce elaborated. "Which is a kind of sweet flag. And liquorice – and cayenne, sometimes. It's one of those weird ones that has hints of both the hoodoo and European traditions. Some people call it 'bend over oil'."

Prentiss and JJ shared looks of disgust.

"None of those things can actually compel a person to do something," Reid pointed out. "Except maybe wash their hands."

"Hypnosis?" Garcia suggested. "Something through the screen, maybe?"

"You can't make someone do something against their basic principles, though," Prentiss argued. "So, they'd never hurt themselves."

"He's got to be controlling them with a gun," said Rossi.

Again, Aaron looked at Pearce, who glanced at the USB stick in his hand. He put it down on the table.

0o0

"So, the unsub triggers the compulsion charm remotely, through the virus," said Grace, quietly. "Then he lays out all the markings and the candles and stuff, and the victims just take off all their clothes and lie down in the middle of it."

"I'm having a hard time believing anyone would just lie there and let someone murder them," said Hotch, speculatively.

"Don't underestimate what magic can make people do," Grace warned.

They were gathered in the small kitchen of the Homicide Department, making the slowest ever three cups of hot beverage, ever.

Spencer kept expecting the others to come over and join them. Rossi, at the very least, seemed to be keeping what he thought was an unobtrusive eye on the conversation.

"Still, I –"

Grace huffed, looked at Spencer, and said, "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," he said, without thinking, and then immediately regretted it. "Wait, why?"

"Because you're going to pick up the bottle of tomato juice behind you and drink it."

There was something different about her voice, he realised. Oddly compelling.

"But I hate tomato juice," he said, confused. He wasn't even thirsty – but then, he sort of was.

His confusion deepened exponentially when he found himself unscrewing the lid and taking a large gulp of the squelchy, disgusting liquid inside.

She touched his arm and suddenly the compulsion to keep drinking it evaporated. Appalled, he threw the bottle in the trash with some force.

"What the hell, Grace?" he sputtered angrily, as she gestured at him in a 'see' kind of way.

"Sorry."

"That was – oh God – revolting. How the hell did you –?" He resisted the urge to scrape his tongue with his fingers. "Why would you do that?"

Looking faintly apologetic, she passed him his coffee and he took a big gulp of it.

"God, that was – wait. Have you ever done that to me before?" he asked, an unpleasant thought having struck him.

"No, I never have. I swear on my magic."

He nodded slowly. He had read about oaths like that in a book by Lemuel Grey. They were the kind a witch took deadly seriously.

Hotch was watching them with a curious and slightly fearful expression.

"That was just the Bearing or the Voice," she explained. "It's one part suggestion, one part intent. And next time it would be harder, because you'd have recognised it as external control, so you'd be able to fight it."

"Could a practitioner ignore something like that?" Hotch asked, warily.

"Yes, almost all of them, if they saw it coming – which means our victims are not practitioners. Anyone else would struggle. I mean, the depths to which Reid loathes tomato juice have yet to be plumbed."

"It's foul and abhorrent sludge, and I hate you right now," he hissed.

"And the whammy that sales girl put on Morgan was easily four times as strong as what I just did," Grace continued, ignoring him. "Neither of you are particularly weak willed."

"What was it?" Hotch asked, his frown deepening.

Spencer followed suit; there had obviously been something off with Morgan when they came back an hour or so before.

"Short-order love spell," said Grace dismissively. "Persuasive, but it would have worn off eventually." She took in their expressions. "Don't worry, I made her take it off."

"How?" Hotch asked, a dangerous tone in his voice.

For a split second, Grace looked mildly sheepish, but then the expression was replaced by a kind of professional arrogance that was unfamiliar.

"I merely suggested to her that it would be in her best interests to do so," she said, and Spencer suspected she was wording that particular sentence very carefully. "And she yielded to my superior argument."

From his somewhat icy expression, he suspected Hotch thought so too.

"Is he going to be okay?" Spencer asked, before their boss could persuade her to incriminate herself further.

"Yeah, he'll sleep it off," said Grace, almost flippantly. "Probably sleep through both his alarms tomorrow, too and wake up very cranky – and hungry. He'll be fine. Anyway, my point is, this guy can absolutely control a person this way. It's standard nefarious wizard crap."

"And then he sets off the USB code, which flays them alive?" Hotch asked, as Spencer wondered what the other unpleasant applications of such compulsion charms could be.

"Yes. In person. He collects the essence – the soul – and seals it in those tawdry trinket boxes, ready for the solstice." She grimaced. "I still don't know why he's keeping the skin, though, unless he thinks it'll help him with the binding."

"Maybe that really is a trophy," Hotch mused. "And the cane?"

"Could be a staff," she said. "Which is problematic. Think of it as an amplification tool. If he has it on him, it'll make him more dangerous."

"Can you counter it?"

She made a non-committal sort of sound, and Hotch nodded. "Okay, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it – and Pearce?" he added, as he turned to head back to the group. "If you use that Bearing thing on any of the team again, you're suspended. Understood?"

"Yes, boss." She waited until he was out of earshot to add, "Though, honestly, I doubt you'd be able to prove it."

There was a brief, contemplative silence, in which Spencer wondered where all the logic and rationality of his younger days had gone – then decided he knew exactly what had happened to them, and the phenomenon was distinctly British and witch shaped. He glowered at Grace, who had the grace (hah!) to attempt to look sorry about forcing him to drink something close to poison*.

"I'm going to be tasting that all day," he complained.

"You shouldn't trust a witch with trouble in her heart," she said lightly, with the kind of smile that made him want to forgive her immediately.

Which was exactly what she wanted, of course, so he merely deepened his glower.

"I really am sorry," she said, possibly guessing that the compulsion part of the equation was giving him cause for some concern.

This time he believed her, but he wasn't about to let her know that. "Hmm," he said. "Okay, right."

He saw a few strains of worry cross her expression, until she figured out he was teasing her and she relaxed a little. His heart gave a little squeeze at that.

"How can I make it up to you?" she asked, tone just on the edge of flirtation, and he subjected her to a particularly evil and triumphant grin.

There was one thing to hand that she hated the taste of as much as he did tomato juice. Today, revenge would not taste particularly sweet – for her, at least.

Spencer thrust his mug of strong, black, sugary coffee into her hand, enjoying the way her face immediately fell. "Drink!"

0o0

*Spencer was inclined to be somewhat dramatic when it came to tomato juice.