"How did I know I'd find you here?" Sergeant Sasha Williams rounded the corner a block from where her team was finishing with the crime scene. She came up short as she entered the cafe, the bell ringing aggressively as it bounced against the doorframe.

Michonne looked up from her coffee, gesturing for her to sit down. Sasha sighed, but complied, lowering herself into the wire chair in front of Michonne. Michonne took a moment to observe her; Sasha looked much the same as she did when they were children. She always favored her father, in looks and temperament. Still, Sasha couldn't hide the whole of her nature.

"I take it that your team has come up with a reasonable explanation for the bodies found this morning?" Michonne asked, pushing a cup towards Sasha. "Two sugars, right?"' She went back to her own drink, stirring the coffee absentmindedly without even touching it.

Sasha scoffed. "Yeah," she answered, clearly frustrated. "We've got a damn serial killer loose." She accepted the mug, taking a gulp. "I take it there's a reasonable explanation for you hanging around my crime scene?"

"The same as usual," Michonne tucked a loc behind her ear.

"You want to clue me in?" Sasha asked.

"Don't I always?" Michonne questioned in turn. She stirred more cream into her coffee.

"So?" Sasha asked, setting her cup down.

"The Governor is awake," Michonne said simply. "And it seems now that no matter how many times Marshal Grimes and I try to put Merle Dixon down, he gets right back up." Michonne refilled her cup. "I have to guess that the Governor found your killer before you did."

Sasha paled, her eyes going round. "You're joking."

"Do I look like it?" Michonne cocked a brow. "You heard the stories, same as I did growing up. And you might not practice anymore-"

"For good reason," Sasha said sharply.

"I never said it wasn't," Michonne soothed. "There's only so much tragedy a person can take. You start looking for ways to make it better." She glanced at Sasha's badge, gleaming from her chest.

"What are you asking?" Sasha pressed.

"I'm not asking anything. I'm warning," Michonne said. "The Governor remembers the Hawthornes, of that I'm sure. You haven't had any premonitions? Any odd dreams? Mine have started to sharpen. I checked the book. Apparently, it runs in the family."

"I don't practice anymore," Sasha repeated.

"Might be time to start again, don't you think?" Michonne polished off her cup.

"I've done fine without it," Sasha said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Better than fine," Michonne agreed. "All things considered, we both have."

Sasha nodded curtly. "I have to get back to work. If this Merle guy is what you say, it should be me that brings him in."

"Marshal Grimes is looking for him," Michonne said.

"He won't be able to handle-" Sasha began to argue.

Michonne cut her off. "Grimes, he knows. Merle attacked him last night. I patched him up."

This statement hung like a bombshell between them. Sasha began to chuckle.

"I knew he was getting too close to you," she mused, shaking her head.

"Yes," Michonne said serenely. "He mentioned you discussed it. I appreciate the compliment."

"Look, I didn't mean anything by it." Sasha sat up straighter. "It's clear he's attracted to you-"

"Sasha," Michonne bit back a sigh.

The younger woman only gained steam. "And it's not your fault, it's just-"

"Sasha!" Michonne's tone sharpened for the first time that morning. "I'm aware," she said simply. "My interest in Rick Grimes is keeping him alive. He can help. He knows Merle better than either of us."

"You think that's safe?" Sasha asked incredulously.

"No," Michonne admitted. "But he's hellbent on catching this Merle Dixon, and I figure we ought to let him. If we find Merle, we find the Governor."

"You're going after the Governor?" Sasha processed this, tapping her fingers.

"Someone has to. He's going to use Halloween."

"Obviously," Sasha agreed. "That leaves us a day."

"There will be more victims," Michonne said.

Sasha only sighed.

"Glenn and Maggie, they know enough now. I'm sending them to you." Michonne said.

"I don't need-" Sasha protested.

"You do," Michonne cut her off. "You need to be ready. If I can't defeat him, it falls to you."

Sasha sucked at her teeth, suddenly gaining interest in the surface of the table.

Michonne sat her empty mug down, reaching across the table. She tapped Sasha's badge twice, brushing nimble fingers over the surface. Sasha reached for her, lacing their hands together tightly.

"Do not forget who you are, sister," Michonne said. "The world certainly will not." She kissed Sasha's palm before releasing her and standing up.

"Good luck," Sasha called to her, voice heavy.

"And to you as well," Michonne smiled, exiting the coffee shop.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"Fuck," Aaron cursed into the receiver. "You said you shot the bastard."

"I did," Rick confirmed. "I think he's got an accomplice."

"His brother?"

"No," Rick sighed. "Daryl Dixon is locked up tight on possession."

"Well who then?" Aaron asked.

"Got the whole NOLA PD looking," Rick relayed. "We'll find him."

"Before he kills someone else, please," Aaron sounded as exhausted as Rick felt. "Shit, Rick-"

"I know," Rick's eyes moved from the crime scene to up the street. Michonne was exiting a coffee shop. She waved at him. "I gotta go. I'll check back in once I know more."

"Be careful," Aaron levied his parting words, disconnecting.

Rick met Michonne in the middle, ducking into a narrow alleyway. They stood in close proximity, Rick shivering in the cold morning air. Michonne noticed. She reached for him, laying a hand on his shoulder. He instantly warmed.

"Thank you," Rick tucked his hands into his pockets along with his phone. "What's the plan?"

Michonne looked back out onto the street. "Sergeant Williams has agreed to watch over things here while we continue the search."

"Really?" Rick asked in surprise. "Didn't figure she'd go for that." Sergeant Williams, lovely though she might have been, was a no nonsense sort of leader.

Michonne laughed lightly. "She is not so normal as she pretends to be," she said. A divot appeared between her brows, the tell-tell sign of some old annoyance. Rick's curiosity was instantly stoked.

"How do you know each other?" he asked, lightly. "You said you were kids?" He wondered for a moment what kind of child the woman in front of him had been. He was willing to bet she was sharp as a tack, even then. Her parents probably had their hands full.

"We're sisters," Michonne announced without preamble, shooting a look that made him sure she knew that he was prying. "Half on our mother's side."

Rick digested this, gobsmacked. "She's a witch too?"

"She will tell you she is not," Michonne began to walk, leading Rick on a winding path through the Quarter. He hurried after her, full of even more questions.

"But you know better?" Rick guessed. "Does it go by blood? How do you-" he cut himself when Michonne looked at him amusedly.

"Typically yes," she answered. "Hawthorne women can only be what we are," Michonne said over her shoulder, her locs swinging as she strolled. "Our mother was one, and her mother before her, back since before we were stolen and brought to America."

"But Sasha isn't a Hawthorne," Rick pointed out.

"She took her father's name. He was a lovely man, and I cannot blame her. Still, blood is what it is." There was an old hurt here, that much was clear, though Michonne was gallantly attempting nonchalance.

Rick paused, searching for a way to politely phrase his thoughts. "Why doesn't she want to be a witch?"

Michonne smiled wryly. "Magic has its costs." She shivered. Without thinking, Rick stepped closer, putting himself between her and the breeze racing up the alleyway. "It can be a lonely way of living," Michonne looked at him, a peculiar look of longing passing over her face.

"Yeah," Rick swallowed, his mouth run dry. "I get that." His face felt warm. He attempted to force the blush back down, focusing instead on removing a stray bit of fluff from the end of one of her locs. She smiled gratefully. His blush only deepened.

"There is no one home, awaiting your return?" Michonne asked, teasing. "No southern belle waiting on her beau?"

He let out a bark of surprised laughter, even as a familiar pang clenched at his heart. "Not anymore," he paused. "It's been a few years."

"She passed?" Michonne's question was gentle. She slowed her steps, coming closer to him.

"My wife," he began to explain. "She died one night when I was investigating. Freak accident. Something in her brain, doctor's said it was like a balloon. It popped and-" he broke off. "I wasn't there," he finished. He did not talk about this, not unless he had to. No one in his office had asked about it since it happened.

Michonne reached for him again, clasping her hand around his forearm. Her thumb rubbed a soothing pattern down to his wrist. "I'm sorry," she said simply.

"It was the first night we found one of Dixon's victims." The story tumbled out, unbidden. "He was in jail at the time, on a narcotics charge. When he got out, the murders started again," Rick shook his head. "Took me months to piece together who he was. Been chasing him for even longer."

"We'll catch him," Michonne assured him. "We'll end this." Her hand still lingered on his arm, the fingertips threatening to burn straight through his sleeve. He quelled the urge to reach back for her.

"What about you?" he asked. "The Governor. He knows you."

"Not me personally," Michonne chuckled quietly. "He is familiar with my family. It was us who ended his reign a century and a half ago."

"So he'll be gunning for you now?" Rick looked around, half expecting a ghost.

"He's not a full power, not yet," Michonne explained. "He needs souls to do that. Back in his time, he used charm to win them over. Seems like he's taking a more direct approach now."

"Merle," Rick guessed.

"He won't be too far from him, not when so much is on the line," Michonne confirmed.

"So we stop Merle, we can nip this thing in the bud?" Rick asked.

Michonne smiled, releasing him. "That's what I'm hoping. Then things will go back to normal."

"What even is normal?" Rick asked. "Especially when you're a witch?"

He meant it as a joke, but Michonne looked caught off guard. She blinked in surprise. "Running my hotel," she listed. "Teaching Glenn and Maggie."

"But not your sister?" he pressed.

"No," Michonne shook her head. "Magic has cost Sasha too much."

"What did it cost her?" Rick asked.

"It's not my place to tell," Michonne began to walk away again, putting space between them.

Rick hastened to catch up. "I'm not trying to be nosy. But you're asking me to take a lot on faith, Michonne. You keep saying magic costs you. Well, I'm about to walk into a big old nest of it."

She paused again, clearly debating. "Our parents died young," she disclosed on a sigh. "First my dad, then hers. Then our mama. The death didn't stop when we got older."

A thought occurred to Rick, a piece of the puzzle sliding into place. "A curse?" he asked before he could think better of it.

Michonne nodded. "You could call it that."

"What would you call it?" he asked her.

"Old magic," she said, worrying at her nails.

"Governor old?" he asked.

Michonne scoffed. "What, are you a detective or something?" she evaded, flashing that brilliant smile.

"Considered making it a profession," he deadpanned, momentarily disarmed. "This Governor though, he cursed you? Your whole family?"

Michonne swallowed. "Yes."

Rick's hands went to his waist, his arm brushing the familiar weight of his holster and gun just beneath his jacket. "Alright," he mused. "So we should probably find this guy."

He'd caught her off guard again. She laughed. "Are you going to arrest him?" she teased.

Rick shrugged. "Or kill him. A 200 year old confederate general ain't someone who should be walking around anyways. I don't think anyone will miss him."

Michonne raised a brow. "And Merle? Will anyone miss him?"

Rick licked his lips. "I figured it's enough to start by looking."

"When we find him," Michonne said, "what's the plan?"

"I take him in," Rick answered easily. "Or take him down. But he's not getting away again."

It was enough for her. "Rick," she began carefully. "At the best of times, Merle was dangerous. Now…"

"You saying you don't want to dig me out of a graveyard again?" Rick asked lightly.

Michonne's dark eyes found his. "I'm saying, stick close to me and I won't have to."

"Alright," he agreed. Rick was in no hurry to spend a night fighting off death again. "Where do we start? It's a big city. The Quarter is crawling with cops now. I doubt he'd strike again here."

Michonne smiled, eyes flashing. "That, I can help with." She began to walk again. "Do you mind driving?"

"Not at all," Rick hurried behind her, heading for the car.

Ten minutes later found them on the highway. Michonne had the windows of the SUV rolled all the way down. The wind streamed in, tugging her locs to and fro. She did not seem as though she minded or even noticed. Here eyes were on her hands, spread palms upward in her lap.

"Do you have anything of Merle Dixon's?" she asked Rick. "Something he may have touched."

Rick paused, considering. He reached over her, into the glove compartment. Fumbling for a moment, he recovered a length of fishing line, once tangled around his leg.

"How's this?" he asked, handing it to her.

Michonne nodded, taking it. Her eyes snapped shut. She began to mumble, a curious mix of latin and french. The space in the car seemed to warp, growing hotter, the wind whistling like a hurricane. Rick clung to the wheel, his eyes darting to the cars around them. They all drove on as though nothing was amiss.

He chanced a glance at Michonne. Her skin seemed to be glowing, as though light was emitting from her veins. His breath caught in his chest. It all stopped at once when Michonne opened her eyes, smiling brightly. "The Bayou," she said. "We will find him there."

"Sounds like a place for a snake," Rick said, turning eyes to the road.

"Or two," Michonne agreed. She reached for her hair, braiding it hastily before twisting it into a knot at the top of her head. "You will need to stay close to me," she instructed, looking over at Rick. "Do you have your weapon?"

"My Colt," Rick opened his jacket to show his holster. "But it didn't do much when the asshole was normal."

Michonne snorted. "If you trust me with it, I can change that."

Rick steadied the wheel, opening his jacket wider to her. "Go for it."

Michonne reached over, gingerly removing the gun. She opened it carefully, letting the bullets spill out in her lap. She spread her fingers out over them, starting her chanting again. The words this time were different, spoken hastily in a low tone. Rick longed to watch, keeping his eyes on the road with difficulty.

"Here," Michonne said, loading the bullets in and handing the gun carefully back to him. It didn't look any different.

"You know your way around guns," Rick observed, tucking his Colt back into his holster.

"Well enough for our purposes today," she shrugged. "I'm not much of a gun person."

"Guess you've got other ways of fighting," Rick agreed.

Michonne looked out of the window, her eyes on the scenery. "Take this exit," she instructed. Rick obeyed, steering them into swamp land. "And I prefer not fighting, actually," she glanced over at him, shrugging. "I just happen to be pretty good at it."

She cracked her neck, turning her attention back outward. Rick chuckled to himself.

"So we go in, guns ablazing?" he asked, watching as the SUV kicked up dirt in its wake.

Michonne fixated on a billboard just off the side of the road, the wheels in her head clearly turning. She turned towards him again.

"Have you ever been on a swamp tour, Rick?" she asked, pointing.

Rick grinned. "No. But I've always wanted to take an airboat." He pulled over, angling the car in.

"No time like the present," something mischievous flashed in Michonne's eyes.

"Do we rent one?" Rick asked, wondering how he could justify the cost to the Marshals.

Michonne threw the car door open and stepped out. "I thought I told you," she tossed a wink his way. "There are perks to being Michonne Hawthorne."

Rick watched her walk away, heading straight for the owner. He turned the car off, pausing to enjoy the view.

"I bet there are," he laughed to himself.

-l-l-l-l-l-

In a car parked just outside the Hotel Hawthorne, Glenn and Maggie were huddled. The cold fogged the panes of the vehicle, but the occupants barely noticed, focusing instead on one another.

"Let's just call," Maggie suggested. "Michonne is family. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Sasha is nothing like Michonne," Glenn reminded her. "And I'm not scared. I'm nervous."

"About what?" Maggie asked, reaching for his hand across the center console.

"I haven't seen in a year. It's been longer since she even came to dinner, or Christmas or-" he swallowed. "After Abraham died, Sasha swore us off."

"She swore off magic," Maggie corrected. "Not her family."

Glenn only sighed. "I don't know what Michonne was thinking."

"She's thinking we've got a magical serial killer and a crazed Governor on the loose. She needs help with this. So we're all going to have to swallow our pride and get this done." Maggie nodded to herself, her mind made up.

Glenn kissed their joined hands. "Alright," he agreed. "Where do we start?"

A knock on the window jolted them both. Startled, they looked out the drivers' side.

"Hey," Sasha waved at them, squinting through the glass. "Thought I'd find you here." She opened the door.

"Sasha," Glenn gaped. "What are you-"

"Stopping you from getting killed," she announced. She shoved unceremoniously at him. "Scoot over. I'm driving." She seemed to notice Maggie at last. "Hey," she threw her hand out. "I've heard a lot about you. Maggie, right?"

"Right," Maggie stammered, releasing Glenn to shake Sasha's hand. "How do you-"

"I've got a plan," Sasha launched into it, looking between the two of them. "I'm going to need some help."

The young couple looked at her in shock. Sasha huffed.

"My sister sent you to watch me, right? She's afraid I'm rusty?" Sasha raised a brow.

"Yeah," Maggie admitted reluctantly.

Sasha shook her head. "Scoot over," she instructed.

"Sasha," Glenn began. "I think whatever it is, we can handle it."

"Oh really?" Sasha asked, clearly amused. "Like you handled the graveyard the other night? Security cameras caught you, clear as day. Lucky I got to the tape before Michonne's Marshal did, or you'd both be sitting in a jail cell somewhere, getting grilled for being accomplices to murder."

This silenced the both of them.

"Now, scoot over," she requested again.

They both complied, scrambling into the backseat. Sasha shut the door with a flick of her wrist.

"Buckle up," she said, throwing the car in drive. "We've got a killer to catch."