You might notice the lack of recipes in this chapter. It's intentional, for if I could this chapter a title, it would be 'The Vampire, the Witch and the School Locker.'

~~~0~~~

Seventy-feet worth of hair was a troublesome thing to brush, yet somehow Rapunzel managed to do just that every single morning.

It was a routine of sorts, after brushing her teeth, scrubbing her face and humming a new tune. Sometimes playing the guitar would proceed it. Occasionally there would be chores after, or maybe baking. Or make candles. Or sketch. Or sew a dress. Any of those delightful things that a person could do before starting their day.

Usually, it did not start with her asking her husband what he was doing climbing out of the window - this early in the morning too!

"Shh!" he was quick to respond, finger flying to his lips. After a baited breath of silence, he jabbed his thumb towards the wall and hissed, "They'll hear you."

'They' referred to the Guardians, the gracious family that had allowed them to stay in their very comfortable, very large mansion after their own home at been burned down in a lightning accident. They were a real nice sort of people, if only a little odd. But that's okay, because she was sort of odd herself. Eugene was too, though he'd die before admitting it. At least, he'd try to die, but he was already sort of dead, so he couldn't really.

Rolling her eyes as she approached the window sill, watching him shifting his legs over the ledge. "Why can't you just use stairs?"

"Because," he explained in a very matter-of-fact manner, "if I use the stairs, I might run into one of them. And if I do, I'd have to talk to that person, and I don't want to." With one hand still grasping the sill and feet pressed against the wall, Eugene peered down below him. "Could I borrow your hair?"

Rapunzel peered down at the golden stands pooled at her feet. Sighing, she scooped up a handful of it and held it out to him. "This is only because I love you."

"Well, I love you too." He pecked her on the lips.

Before she knew it, he was gone and all she could feel was the pressure against her scalp, which she eased by twisting the locks in her grip. She watched he snuck out to the car, gaze flitting left and right before disappearing into the forest. Somehow, just the feeling of her hair draped outside combined with gazing at someone from a window stirred up emotions that she quickly buried.

After reeling her hair back up, Rapunzel got back to brushing her hair again. Really, Eugene's tendencies towards drama were a bit much sometimes. She knew that he avoided interacting with other vampires like the plaque, but that's because most other vampires lacked the good qualities that the Guardians possessed. Of course, Eugene didn't really believe that anyone really had 'good' in them. Some things never changed.

Once she had the golden strands all braided up, Rapunzel emerged from the room that the Guardians had permitted her, and now Eugene too, to stay in. She quite liked its location, because it allowed her to stroll past the numerous lovely art pieces that were displayed on the way to the kitchen. By now, she was familiar with the calligraphed poems, the rusted kris, the china milkmaid and also the poster with dancing frogs in suits and top hats.

Frogs made her think of chameleons though, and thinking of chameleons made her sad, so she distracted herself by thinking of what the Guardians might be cooking up this time. They took turns in preparations, and somehow found the time to make some for her too, blood-free. She was grateful for the thoughtfulness, and surprised at how excellent the food really was. She wondered if they might let her cook for them one day, though it probably wouldn't be of the same level.

But there was no one in the kitchen when she arrived, and certainly none at the breakfast table. There were however some pancakes sitting there, with a scribbled note beside it.

Dr. Fitzherbert,

Enjoy this breakfast and feel free to explore the mansion as much as you like. We will be out for quite some time thanks to some – ahem – stupid white-haired punk.

Regards,

The Guardians

Rapunzel lay the note down and glanced at the pancakes. She wondered what had happened to Jack, but she could multitask, so she decided to eat while wondering.

Once breakfast was cleared and dishes were done, Rapunzel wasn't quite sure what to do. She had taken leave to come care for Bunny, and after the house burned down, she had found another doctor to take her slots while she dealt with the unexpected homelessness. The issue wasn't however presently being dealt with though, since Eugene hadn't been very responsive to her suggestions on a new place to stay. She had some news clipping from yesterday, and got some ideas from Craiglist. The cottage near the South lake was open for rent and she quite liked the pictures of it.

Ah well, Eugene was busy with his current cases. Maybe once that was over, they could sit down and really talk it through. For now, perhaps she should do as the Guardians suggested and go explore the Mansion a little more. It was so huge that surely there was more that she could find.

Indeed there was. She hadn't had the time to explore the halls around the drawing room. There was a collection of illustrated fans hung from the walls, and as a series of lacquered furniture. She admired the craftsmanship as much as the design and couldn't help but run her fingers over them. Over all her years of living, she never really considered wood-craft as a hobby. Perhaps she could try to learn.

As she neared the drawing room, she paused at one of the lacquered cupboards that had a lock over its doors. It was a real old-fashion one, thin and fragile-looking, with a small little slot by the side. Fascinated, she paused examine it and wondered if it would be picked open, just like those old locks that Flynn had thought her to pick eons ago.

Rapunzel removed a pin from her hair – one of a dozen, so it was no threat to her braids – and stuck it in through the opening. A little jiggling was all it took and the lock jumped free. Pleased that her little mischief had succeeded, she prepared to slip the lock back on when she noticed there was something inside the cupboard.

By right, she shouldn't be poking her nose in places like this in a house that wasn't hers, but something seemed to draw her towards the cardboard box. When she pulled the doors back further, she could see it in Eugene's messy scrawl 'Eloise'.

Stunned, Rapunzel drew the box out, staring down at its contents with a mixture of confusion and sadness. For some reason, she had the urge to hold it close to her chest, as if it to protect from an lurking evil that she couldn't name.

~~~0~~~

Hiccup Haddock the Third actually liked high school.

Maybe it was something to do with the fact that he hadn't had any form of formal education till the second half of his life. But genuinely, he liked math and psychics, and he had mastered the art of avoiding jerks and bullies long, long ago. So on the whole, he'd rate high school at about eight out of ten stars, with an extra half-star on carpentry days.

Naturally, when he had to miss it, he felt mightily annoyed.

Rolling his head back whilst waiting for the elevator to descend, he wondered ruefully why the gods had granted him such an inconvenient gift as that of befriending wild, dangerous creatures. Sure, the friendship that he had struck up with dragons had, in a way, ensured the mutual survival of both their species in a world of deteriorating environmental conditions and increasing industrialisation.

Nonetheless, it did mean that he had to deal with a great deal of diplomatic nonsense.

"Hiccup," he was greeted as he drew the elevator door open. The device was a relic from the 19th Century when the mine was still operational. When his clan had migrated here, their strong arms and keen hands had made short work of the tunnels and passages, expanding it out into a underground town. Some old tracks and lamps stayed behind, only being refurbished every now and then, but no one here really felt a need to keep up with the times more than necessary.

He nodded at the fellow clansman who had greeted him, calling his name in turn. As he went down along the winding path through the town, he was greeted at least five more times, and only with great skill avoided having to converse with Bucket about the hundred different headaches he had today. There were many advantages to being the son of the Chief and 'sort-of-saviour' of the clan, but morning greetings was not one of them.

He finally found himself outside the town prison, where he was slightly alarmed to find that no one outside. Muscles tensing, he reached for the fire-blade that he had by his side as he entered the building.

The town prison wasn't very big, because most prisoners here wouldn't have been kept alive long enough for it to matter (…sometimes) and also space was a bit of a problem down here. So there were only two prisons, one lined with silver, and one lined with rowan wood. 'Rowan' being another name for 'mountain-ash'.

The silver one was unoccupied at present, and the rowan wood one had three times more people in it than it was supposed to.

"Quick, pass me the saw."

"Which one?"

"The one on your left. No, no, your other left."

"What's going here?" Hiccup interrupted, folding his arms.

The prisoner that the cell was supposed to contain was cuffed in a pair of silver, with chains the same material dangling from his legs. Garlic had been strewn at four corners of the cell. All this was pretty standard protocol for vampire control, so whilst Hiccup thought it overkill, it was all still expected.

What wasn't protocol was that the prisoner being tied to the table, gagged and hovered over by a pair of maniacal twins; one holding a chain-saw, one wielding a warhammer. Next to them was a table filled with everything from a toolbox to a powder barrel to a defibrillator.

"Oh, hello, Hiccup," Tuffnut greeted him completely without shame, even waving the chainsaw a little in the air. "What you doing up and about to these parts?"

"My father, the chief," he made sure to emphasise the 'chief' "-has asked me to bring the prisoner before the council. Alive." He raised a brow at the chainsaw.

"Oh, we weren't going to hurt him," Ruffnut assured, not so subtly hiding a long wooden stake behind her.

"Much," Tuffnut added behind his hand, not realising that Hiccup could hear him perfectly.

The white-haired prisoner had tilted his head towards him, and his eyes begged, "Save me!"

Hiccup rubbed his temple. Sometimes, being chief-in-training was really overrated. "Okay," he finally said. "Can you guys please go?"

"But we haven't even started the first test," Tuffnut complained, flicking the switch of the chainsaw on and letting it give out saw 'whirrrrrrrr'.

Though it wasn't likely that he would be hurt, the vampire still flinched.

Hiccup however just stomped his metal leg down and pointing to the exit. "Out. Now."

Grumbling under their breath, the twin reluctantly gathered up their belongings. Even as they departed, Tuffnut was complaining about the abuse of authority, almost dropping a can of petrol when he shook a fist in the air.

Rolling his eyes, Hiccup entered the cell and removed the gag from the prisoner's mouth. "Sorry about that."

Jack was still looking a little wild-eyed as he propped himself up onto the table. Well, as much as he could with his two hands cuffed hands together. "Three times," he spat out, wrinkling his nose. "Three times in these two weeks have I been kidnapped and-or attacked!"

"Maybe you're just very easy to kidnap and attack."

"Hey!"

"Anyway, I have to read you your rights before I bring you." Hiccup pulled out his phone and searched for the notes.

Jack pulled a face. "What, like a right to remain silent and all that?"

"Uhh, no. You don't have that right down here. If you're asked to talk, you have to talk." Hiccup scrolled up till he found the page. "Yeah, only that whatever you say can and will be used against you."

"Seriously?"

"You broke the treaty between our clan and yours, Jack." Uh, that headache was back again, pinching against his skull. "What were you thinking, crossing hunting grounds at this time of the month?"

"It was an emergency! And I totally forgot about full moon." Jack had the decency to look at little ashamed.

"Yeah, well, you might have started an all-out war between both our clans." The auburn-haired boy shrugged as he undid the leg cuffs. "C'mon. Let's get you convicted."

~~~0~~~

Case Number: 13425623432

Date: 19 February 2014

Reporting Officer: Deputy Richter

Prepared by: Officer Conli

Incident Type: Murder

Address of Occurrence: Burgess High School, 37 Hawthorn Road, Burgess, PS 159000

Witnesses: Jack F. Guardian: Student. Male. 17. American.

(REST OF LIST OMITTED FOR PRIVACY OF STUDENTS)

Evidence: Surveillance Footage.

Weapon/ Object Used: Knife/Sword. Yet unfound.

On February 19, 2014, at approximately 1635, a student Jack Guardian went to his locker during a school organised blood donation programme, as witnessed by various fellow students. He was seen opening the locker, and appeared shock when a body came tumbling out. "I was just going to get my laptop," Jack F. Guardian said in his witness statement. According to him, he had last opened his locker in the morning at approximately 0712, when his locker contents had not been tampered. This statement is supported by surveillance footage.

There is however no noticeable activity near the locker between the time Jack F. Guardian first used the locker that day to the time he found the body. Witness interviewed stated they didn't notice anything peculiar about the body until the time Guardian opened the locker. No possible suspects known as of yet.

~~~0~~~

In the three and half years that he had been in the force – excluding the two that he had spent as a glorified coffee boy – Officer Conli had never met someone like Flynn Rider. Then again, he had lived his entire life in Burgess, which wasn't exactly known for having very extraordinary people. So on that alone, just the novelty on having an outsider in town in itself was of remark.

But P.I. Rider – he refused the title of 'Detective' – wasn't strange as much as he was eccentric. That meant he was still strange, but insisted what he was doing made perfect sense.

"Not meaning to be a bother, Mr. Rider, sir," the police officer asked as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The surveillance room of Burgess High School didn't have air-conditioning and the ceiling fan twirling above them was so slow that it might as well not been there. "But we've been staring at this for this last hour."

"Yep." The man with goatee craned his neck up towards the dusty screen, squinting as he replayed the footage over and over again. When the timestamp showed 07:12am, a blurred image of a white-haired boy was seen dashing to the locker at the corner of the screen, shoving something in and then darting off.

Before it hit 4:35pm, few others were seen around the locker. Well, there were a couple of students who loitered near the area and a cleaner who appeared to wiping down all the lockers with a cloth – a rather tedious approach. Okay, there was one occasion where a student was being shoved against a locker in the area, but it wasn't at the locker of their concern, so it didn't really matter.

When the timestamp rolled back to 4:35pm, this time caught at an angle that allowed one to make out a bit of his face, the white-haired boy's figure could be noted moving up to the lockers again, opening the door of one of them. The body, a blurry mass in the footage, was seen tumbling out.

Fanning himself with the notepad that he had brought a long, Conli asked, "So…have you found anything?"

"I just find it odd the perspective of the scene was altered between the two timings," Rider remarked, as he clicked on the backward button. The officer standing behind let out a quiet sigh.

"Sir," Conli tried to sound patient. He knew that the Sheriff didn't really like Rider, and vice versa, but the Sheriff also made it clear that Rider should be accommodated as much as possible. The last thing the force needed was for him to walk away from the case. They were all out of ideas at this point, and they needed to prove to the town that we weren't completely incompetent. "You know what they said about their cameras. They switch to cameras at certain times to prevent overheating. The footage at 7.35am was recorded from a different camera at 4.35pm."

"Stupid idea," said Rider gruffly, except that he used a much cruder phrase instead of 'stupid'.

"It's a public school. They're not exactly stacked with dough," the younger officer defended, albeit weakly. "Besides, the same area was covered by the other camera, wasn't it?"

The brunette fellow didn't reply, choosing to lean forward and squint at the screen. Finally, he said, "Let's go exam the lockers."

Conli let out a huge sigh of relief. He would later curse himself for believing thing would be that easy.

When they got to barricaded area that was the scene of crime, Rider insisted on examining every inch of the locker; checking dimensions, looking at paint job, squinting really, really hard at the numbers. Any student who had stopped to watch them quickly grew bored and eventually scuttled off to his or her own classes.

"When did they say that they switch on the surveillance cams again?" Rider was asking at he peered down at the vents of the green metal door.

"For the main school hall, after nine pm."

Again, the private investigator remarked a phrase that wasn't so nice.

"They say that the custodian locks the place up by eight, so they never felt the need to leave the cameras running," Conli read off from his notepad, flipping. "Oh, except for the computer room. That's the only place in the school with things worth stealing."

"Public school computers? Not worth the robbery." Rider sniffed as he scratched against the vents, peeling off something thin and transparent. It was apparent plastic tape, layered over and over until it covered the whole vent.

Conli cleared his throat. "Um, I think we're not supposed to remove anything from the scene of…"

"Did anyone ask the boy if he stuck the tape himself on the vents himself?"

"What?"

"Did anyone ask the boy if he stuck the tape himself on the vents himself?"

"Err…" Conli flipped through his notebook, then pulled the file from his sling bag and browsed hastily through it. "Oh, um. No."

"Well, make a note to ask him." Rider crunched the tape up into a ball and tossed it nonchalantly behind him. The police officer sighed as he scribbled the note.

The investigator then proceeded to fiddle with the lock of the locker – one of those types attached to wall of the locker that required the individual to roll the numbers wheels to form a combination. Rider didn't touch the outside however, just fiddled with the interior side of the lock.

Eventually, he ceased that meaningless activity to shut the locker door. He then proceeded to stare at the dark green door, then glanced down the whole line of lockers that flanked the corridor. Conli himself admitted it was quite an ugly sight, really – the rows and rows of narrow green rectangles lined tightly against one another. No décor was sighted on any of the doors, for apparently school regulation forbade such tampering. The lack of personalisation made the only distinguishing factor between the lockers the black numbers painted on them.

Apparently, these black printed numbers were worth their attention, because time and time again, Rider kept staring at those number printed on the locker in front of him, which said 'A28'. He also kept tracing over it with his gloved finger, as it doing that might tell himself something important.

Letting out a light cough, Conli inquired, "So, what now?"

Rider didn't answer at once, choosing to glance over at the lockers to his left. He pulled at the door labelled A27, which didn't budge. He then tried the next one, and this time managed to open it. He checked the back of the door, examining the lock there. He then proceed to do the same for A25, A24, and A23, in which only the last of them could be opened.

"Can we find out if there's any student assigned to this locker?" the investigator pointed to the opened locker, as he once again proceeded to stare at the interior side of its door.

Conli creased his brow. "Well, I suppose we could, but it doesn't have any rele-"

"Good. Do that." Rider shut the locker door, then yanked it open again. Then let it shut again. "And I'll need to know the person in charge of the cleaning operations for this place." Stepping away from the lockers (at last!), he ripped off his latex gloves. "By the way, the Guardian boy never got his belongings back did he?"

"Sir?"

"The ones that were in his locker." The investigator rolled the gloves up into the air, before swinging his arm back and letting it fly in the air. It landed perfectly in the bin.

Conli didn't know whether to be impressed or annoyed, considering that the less-responsibly-disposed ball of tape was still sitting at his heels. The only thing that the young officer said was, however, "No, we haven't been able to recover them. We thought the perpetrator might have dumped it somewhere or stolen it."

Rider seemed to have expected this, for he didn't reply, merely waving at his baffled partner. He didn't cast a second glance at the crime scene any longer "We'll return to the station then."

"Yes, sir." Conli nodded respectfully. Inwardly, he was still enormously puzzled.

~~~0~~~

Elinor Dunbroch was in many ways the quintessential 'soccer-mom'. She was the kind that her children's class timetables on the fridge and freshly-packed lunches in the morning. She always had a drawer full of scrap cloths in time for Halloween and personally-wrapped presents (complete with individually signed cards and cloth-ribbon bows) at Christmas. She kept her home spotless and her meals spectacular. She got on with the neighbours, on every volunteer committees and had been nominated as 'Burgess-ian of the Year' twice by the local press.

These achievements were all very remarkable, considering her genetics predisposed her to the consumption of children. Or the summoning of demons. Whichever was convenient.

Now, it wasn't to say that Elinor had no respect for the traditions of her kin. Quite the contrary, she was very proud of her lineage. But being proud of one's ancestry didn't equate to actually practicing the ancient arts. Not to say that Elinor never used to a spell or two to fix her cooking, but she wasn't half as interested in pursuing the arcane as she was in printing monograms.

Moreover, a witch shouldn't be so occupied with her children either. Well, at least the sons. The daughters, when of age, should be groomed in the Dark Arts, so that after their mother's passing, the culling can begin and the last daughter might inherit the full magnitude of her parent's powers. The cycle repeated through the generations, until the witch in question decided that having children was too bothersome and spent her life interpreting the guts of sheep or prying out tongues from serpents. Oh, and also dissecting their little brothers - you know, for witchcraft.

Perhaps in view of such, Elinor Dunbroch's life choices made a little more sense.

Her daughter didn't really agree her way of life. Not that Merida found the calling of witchcraft appealing - oh, no. But Merida just didn't agree with anything because she was stubborn, irresponsible girl so determined on making her own fate.

Look where that led.

It's the third day in a row that Elinor turned up at the county police department and the clerk has long given up asking her what she wanted. Carefully balancing the cookie tin in her hand, she headed to the Sheriff's office. The moustached-man had previously hinted that her direct visits to him were discouraged, since he was 'a very, very busy man', but she had pretended to not notice this and let herself into office.

"Good morning, Sheriff D'Guarde," she greeted him blithely.

The man, who was in the process of reading his morning paper whilst sipping its matching coffee, jumped, and thus spilled the mentioned coffee onto the mentioned paper. His moustache seemed to twitch as he slowly raised his head, upon which he was greeted by Elinor's bright smile.

Without waiting to be invited, she took the seat across his, expression expectant. "I trust that today that might be some news of progress in the my daughter's case?"

Usually by this time, the sheriff would have set his mug down, wiped the coffee off his moustache and chin, before beginning to explain that he's got men on the case, but these kind of things take time, and be rest assured that the criminal would be brought to justice. But the sheriff only did the first two out of three of his before a sly look crossed his face. Rising to his feet, he headed towards the door, saying, "As it happens, Mrs. Dunbroch, there's a new man in charge of your daughter's case. Quite a well-known fellow - might have seen him in the papers." He held the door open. "Shall we?"

Curious, Elinor allowed the Sheriff to lead her through the musty corridor, past the cramped cubicles and haggard officers, all along while he sung praised of this 'detective' that they had working on the case.

"Not really one of us - not even in the force, really. Runs his own gig down in Corona, but he comes highly recommended."

"'Highly recommended'?" Elinor repeated, brow arching.

"Yes, and I've no doubt he'll be able to address all your queries." The Sheriff appeared oddly pleased with himself, like he had both the bird in the hand and two in the bush. He finally stopped at one unlabelled office and shoved the door open without ceremony. "Oy, Rider!"

The only person in the messy room was sitting on the desk, knees crossed as he studied the notes on a clip board. He was not in uniform, rather dressed in a rather flattering cut of a vest and shirt. When the individual looked up at the intruders, Elinor was surprised at how young he appeared to be. No older than thirty, and 'highly recommended'? She wondered how he could have earned such an accolade in such a short period of time.

As it was, the young man with the trimmed goatee scowled at them, almost snarling, "D'Guarde."

"This is Mrs. Dunbroch," the sheriff introduced her, purposely ignoring the irritation on his colleague's face. "And Mrs. Dunbroch, Flynn Rider."

"How do you do, Detective Rider," Elinor greeted, stretching a hand out.

The young man didn't take the hand, merely peering at it. Or more accurately, the ring that she had around her finger. At last, he said, "I'm not a detective. I'm P. I."

Elinor's forehead creased quizzically as she dropped her hand.

"There's a difference."

"Well, I'm sure you too have a lot to discuss." Sheriff D'Guarde was looking awfully pleased with himself for reason, and that only intensified the dark mood Rider had. "I'll leave you two to it then." With that, he took his leave.

A strained growl emerged from the back of Not-Detective Rider's throat as he climbed off the table, and he sunk down on the chair behind it. He was clearly displeased with the situation. Elinor sympathized, of course, but surely he didn't need to be so obvious about it.

She took the empty seat across from his own, laying the tin over her lap and folding her hands over it. "I understand that you must be very busy working on my daughter's case, so I will strive to make this brief," she said without preamble. "I just want to know what you've found."

Rider considered her for a moment, brows furrowed as he rubbed his goatee. At last, he simply repeated, "You want to know what I've found."

"Yes." She stared at him, raising a brow. "Like evidence. Or suspects. Anything."

He returned to staring at her, again not speaking. From the intensity of his gaze, she could almost hear the cogs in his head turning and realised that he was actually studying her. His gaze rested briefly to her wrist, then up to the white-streak running to the back of her head, then to the elaborately embroidered motifs of her sleeves. It was a little disturbing, and also quite rude.

Tapping the heel of her shoe against the floor, Elinor queried, "Well?"

He flipped back the pages of his clipboard, reclining against his chair. His brows narrowed together. "How long have you lived here, Mrs. Dunbroch?"

Elinor frowned. "I believe I had asked you a question first."

"Just humour me."

She bit her lip, considering her options. At last, she answered, "Thirty years now. Why?"

"Why this particular place town? Why so far away from Stirling?"

"How did you know-"

He lifted off a few sheet on the board, then pointed at one paragraph. "Had you checked up."

The lady was properly aghast, and a little fearful – just in case he found something that really important. "How dare you!"

She reached to snatch the board, only for him to withdraw it. "Ma'am," he said, undaunted by her furious expression. "It's part of my job to find out the tiniest details of a case just in case they might be related – and trust me, they usually are."

"But background search on me is a breach of confidentiality!" Elinor fumed, rising on her feet involuntarily. The cookie tin was smashed against the table as she glared at him.

"Then perhaps you understand that in a task requiring the breaching of confidentiality on so many fronts, I can't freely dispense the information that I've obtained." His expression was cool, but there was a hint of smug that she didn't like in his tone.

Her expression, which had been enraged before, now was twisted with confusion. "I don't understand."

"I'd just like you to consider that you're not the only one affected by your daughter's death. So, if you don't mind-" rising from his seat and smoothly stepping around her "-I have work to do."

He was out of the room before she could say anything, slamming the door behind him as he went. He had taken that clipboard with him too, which left if her with zero answers and way too many questions.

Picking up the cookie tin with a huff, Elinor was about to stomp her way out when she noticed a small slip of something wipe on the floor. Picking it up, she noticed it was a hastily-written address - "32 Merchant Lane."

Peering at the closed door, she pondered on what exactly to do.

Later, when Officer Conli came to drop some files off at Rider's empty office, he was surprised by the tin of cookies left there.

~~~0~~~

Considering the pittance of pay that an average teacher in public school earned, it was pretty difficult to believe that this was the home of a history tutor.

It was grand, ugly thing, sprawling unevenly over the grassy hill that had been squashed to accommodate its imprudent weight. It had an air of dignity and snobbery about it; an accurate reflection, perhaps, of its inhabitants.

Such lavish homes didn't intimidate Flynn at all. In fact, he had, within a minute of seeing it, worked out at least four ways to break into it. One of those ways would involve a bottle of turpentine, an expert knowledge of woodwork and also a wild beaver. But not all knowledge was useful, especially when one was unable to perform the 'entering' portion of 'breaking-and-entering'.

Nonetheless, cunning was still a close ally of Flynn Rider and it was with complete confidence that he reached for the doorbell and pressed it. As he waited, he adjust the knobs of his newly purchased camera. He hadn't the clue how to use it, but he reckoned the man he was looking for did either.

Speaking of which, the owner of Manor had arrived, looking rather perturbed in his gaudy red robe, tied to his waist by a gold-buckled belt. The comical curves of his moustache seemed to twitch as he appraised the unfamiliar fellow that paid a call this late hour. Finally, he spoke, "What?"

"Good evening," greeted Flynn, manner cordial and light. "Apologies for disturbing you, but I'm from the Burgess Weekly, and we're doing a story on families important to the Heritage of the town."

The weasel-y small fellow raised a brow, making the white mop of hair on his shift a little. "Oh?"

"Yes, it is well known that Weaseltown Manor-"

"Weselton!" came the displeased interruption. Clearing his throat, the man repeated a little more collectedly, "It's Weselton."

"Ah, sorry about that," the offender apologised smoothly. "As I was saying, Weselton Manor is one of Burgess' timeless monuments and it's pretty important that the younger generation knows more about it. Now, I know that the manor's been closed for visits for a while-"

"Darn straight." Weselton nodded with a righteous expression. "Those pesky kids sneaking around – just don't trust them, you know."

"Agreed. Anyway, since we wouldn't any of those 'pesky kids' sneaking here, I was wondering if I could come in and take some photos. For the papers, you know."

This was it. He had laid out the bait, but the owner of the Manor needed to give him the right answer first.

Weselton stroked his chin slowly, humming a little. "Well, it's just for historical preservation, isn't it?"

C'mon. C'mon. "And for future generations to know, yes."

"And it will be in the papers…" the bald fellow – well, bald under that ridiculous toupee, at least – murmured to himself.

"Yep, so that the whole town could read it." C'mon. C'mon!

After a moment – a pain, gut-wrenching moment – the wiry elderly gentleman finally answered in an oily, condescending manner, "Well, I suppose I could spare a few minutes of my time. Please-" holding open the door "-come in, but use the shoe mat first. Can't have dirt on these carpets, you know."

"Of course." Bingo.

From what he had read in the actual Burgess Weekly, the Weseltons had been one of the wealthiest families in Burgess. Before the World War, its influence of the small town of Burgess was only rivalled by the actual 'founders-of-the-town' Burgess family. However, most of the men had been wiped out either in service or by contagion during the late forties, and a bulk of the families' original properties had been sold off. Though they had long faded in the backdrop, it appeared that there was still enough of the old fortune for surviving family to live comfortably. Even if that survivor happened to work at a public school.

Of course, the current Weselton himself made it sound like his family heritage was still the greatest thing in the world since ice-cream. "As you can see this is a portrait of my great-great-great-grandfather, the 4th Duke of Weselton back in Norway," the skinny, small man boasted, gesturing towards the erratic collage of paint over the fireplace. It was supposed to be a portrait, but it looked more like a fruit cake. "He practically invented the polka, if you didn't know."

"Oh, I didn't," Flynn answered dryly, as he took the obligatory photo. He was pretty sure that the polka originated from the Czechs, but who said that history teachers had to know any real history.

Though he had claimed that he was only going to spare a few minutes, Weselton made it very clear that he intended to spend the entire evening talking about every single heirloom, artefact and mothball that dwelled in the giant building. Even the floorboards had an 'absolutely fascinating tale', and there was no way that Flynn could get out of being regaled in it.

As the tour with an unnecessarily long commentary dragged on, the brunette man scanned his surroundings carefully, checking every nook and cranny for anything suspicious. There was nothing in sight however that caught his fancy and the longer Weselton's spiel got, the more he regretted coming here.

"Just out of curiosity, Mr. Weselton," Flynn managed to interrupt during one story of how his granduncle's third-cousin-in-law-twice-removed's cockatoo's cage had accidentally invented prisons. "I noticed you have a lot of painting in your place. Does your family have anything to do with the Burgess' Gallery of Art?"

"Well, the museum was founded by some Danish lord of sorts," Weselton waved his gloved hand carelessly as he spoke. "He was good friends with my grandfather, and the care of the museum was passed to my family afterwards. Of course, my foolish, over-generous mother-" he sneered "-donated to the Town Council. Do you know that they let visitors in for free? Abominable! Absolutely no business sense."

"Ghastly," Flynn supplied in agreeing fashion, but his eyes darted to the moving wrist of old fellow. There was something black along skin, largely covered by the long-sleeves and the gloves. A suspicion crept upon the investigator, but a closer look would be needed.

"This next room will be a real treat, I can assure you." His boastful host led him down the carpeted corridor – if the moth-eaten thing beneath his feet could be called carpet at all. "Now, this one was built by my father's cousin's husband's brother after a trip to France. Visiting the Palace of Versailles had inspired him so much that he just needed to make it something like it." Weselton let out a chuckle for some reason.

"That's sound really interesting," was what Flynn said, when really he should have remembered what Versailles was, and what it was famous for.

"Now, might I present-" Weselton usher him inside, gesturing eagerly around "-Weselton Manor's Hall of Mirrors."

The room itself was actually pretty well designed, considering the budget that its crafter had. Its pastel wallpaper made everything feel light and warm. Two large windows that allowed the sun during daytime. Two large mirrors were posed opposite them, so that sunlight could reflect upon it and illuminate the whole place. It would have been a very delightful sight indeed.

But no one in the room cared about the architectural marvel it was. They were occupied instead with the fact that the mirror only showed the reflection of one of the men.

Before Flynn could properly process what was happening, Weselton already had a gun in his hand. Cocking it, his gaunt fingers curled around the trigger. Right before the bullet could its mark, however, the vampire managed to shift. The silver grazed his skin rather than piercing his brain.

The wiry, old fellow however was not as fragile as his age would make him out to be. His free hand darted under his robe to pull out a gleaming dart. With a toss of his hand, he had it launched towards Flynn. This, however, was caught by the lens of the camera, dead centre into the glass.

The private investigator sighed. That camera had been pretty expensive.

Since it wasn't going to take an mind-blowingly awesome photographs anymore, Flynn tossed it his assailant. Hard.

The impact of the camera's weight against Weselton, combined with the inhumanly large force that Flynn had thrown it at, was enough to send the old man falling backwards, gun tipping from his hand the same time. On the ground, the old man still clutched at his chest, wheezing heavily. His shaking hand reached for his firearms, but Flynn kicked it across the hall.

He saw Weselton's left hand reach under the robe again, and grabbed his wrist in time. The old fellow cried out as his arm was twisted backwards. Flynn's face didn't change. Crouching down, he gazed at the struggling man with a cold expression. "Let's not complicate things, shall we?"

"Please." Without his weapon, the pompous man was reduced to a trembling, grovelling mess. "I'm just a humble history teacher. I don't have anything that you want." He made a high-pitched whine that maybe was supposed to sound pitiful, but it just irritated Flynn even more.

Crouching down, he grabbed Weselton by the collar, snapping, "You teach at Burgess High. A few months ago, you had been placed in charge of cleaning staff– not in your job scope, but it has its uses. I also know that you were working overtime late into the night on 18th February, and you allowed in a person into the main school building when the surveillance cameras had been switched off to save money. A person carrying a body."

Weselton whimpered, trying to pull away too no avail.

The vampire yanked off the glove and pushed back the sleeve. There it was on the old man's inner wrist; the 'V' and 'H' intertwined with a wreathe of wild roses. Throwing it down in disgust, he let out a low growl, causing the gaunt man to shrink back further.

"You're no murderer yourself – you're too squeamish," Flynn continued, bearing a disgusted expression. "But you helped the murderer hide the body in the locker 'A28', which belonged to a certain 'Jack F. Guardian'. You shifted his belongings to the empty locker at 'A23' and used a white board marker trace over it. You also altered the lock to match of the code of his original. In a corridor of identical, undifferentiated and narrowly-cut lockers, it had all too been easy to trick a busy young man into believing A23 to be his actual locker when entering the school. That's where he stashed his laptop before racing off to conduct his blood donation drive."

"You then sent the cleaning staff specific instructions to wipe down all the locker-doors along the corridor, claiming that the area might be 'infected' with the blood drive going on. The cleaning staff thus unwittingly removed the ink that had made 'A23' look like 'A28', thus leaving only one A28 for Jack to find on his return, and where he would find the body. This change was barely noticed on surveillance cameras, since the camera angle over the scene changes across time – a so-called 'energy-saving solution' proposed by you some time ago."

"Subsequently, you paid a student to empty out Jack Guardian's belongings in 'A23' and bring them to you. That locker hadn't been cordoned off, since it was five doors down from the actual site. Thus perfecting the illusion that the body had miraculously appeared in his locker." Grinning in a manner that was inappropriately mirthful, Flynn asked, "Did I miss anything?"

The old fellow paused. Eventually - "Covering the vents with tape was my idea. Didn't want the boy to catch sniff of the witch before he opened it." Even though trembling, he sounded proud. Pleased even.

The vampire's smile fell away. "I see. That is quite clever, isn't it?"

"Well, if I say so myself-"

"SHUT UP!"

The man pressed his lips together, suddenly remembering his position.

Letting out a deep exhale, Flynn suddenly yanked Weselton to his feet, his palm pressing into his throat. "Now, here's what going to happen," he hissed, his fangs starting to reveal themselves. "You're going to tell me everything you know, and I might possibly not kill you. How's that?"

The weaselly man gulped.

~~~0~~~

Gunfire.

Glancing up from her phone, Elinor's gaze zeroed-in to the upper window of the manor, where the commotion was from.

For the last two hours, waiting along 32 Merchant Lane had been incredibly uneventful. The private investigator had been inside for a really long time, and she had grown quite bored of waiting for him to emerge. She had checked her watch several times, had puttered around listlessly as dusk turned into night. The moonlight had provided little solace as she fidgeted with her hands, wondering what was taking so long. Wondering whether coming here had been a mistake, when she could have spent the evening with her family instead.

Apparently, her intuition had been right.

Wrapping her shawl around her, Elinor darted away from the spot that she had been hiding at, over to a nearby tree. Murmuring a short incantation, she watched as the mighty birch twist its branches around, arranging itself to form a stair-shaped construct from its twigs and overhangs. Hastily, she climbed up the branches, careful not to snag her heels between leaves.

When she arrived the end of the impromptu stairs, she was found herself staring at curtains. She heard sounds of struggle, some pleas, but saw nothing. Frustrated, she placed her hand against the tree, murmuring a few more words of encouragement.

The birch obliged by using its branches to extend into a platform, along her to go much closer to the window. With the curtains drawn, she still couldn't see much, but she was able to make out the conversation better.

"-is he?" she heard being demanded. "Tell, where is he?" That was the Not-Detective Rider's voice.

Pressing her ear against the glass, Elinor could make out the softer voice. It was choking. Hoarse. Frightened. "Please, I can't – if I do, they'll kill me. They'll-"

"If you don't, I'll kill you." Rider's tone was chilling, and it was beyond doubt that he was seriously.

An huge sense of uneasiness settled itself in her stomach.

"I can't-"

"You can. You're going to tell me-"

"Please, I'm begging you. I can't-" it was loud 'crack' and an agonised yell.

Elinor yanked herself away for a second, horrified.

It didn't end there though. There were more pleas, more cries, more sounds resembling the breaking of bones and the bruising of flesh. She could almost imagine the blood splattering everywhere.

She should run. Call the police. Call Fergus.

But she didn't. She stood there frozen, listening as the man in charge of solving her daughter's murder was beating some poor soul to a bloody pulp. She needed to do something. She needed help. She needed advice.

She reached into her cloak for the small stone there, rubbing her thumb furiously over it while whispering the ancient words, hoping that her call would be answered.

~~~0~~~

"You don't-" wheeze "-you don't get it, do you?"

The blood was starting to get to his head, even though he had fed less than twenty-four hours ago. But in his rage and frustration, he hadn't been keeping his emotions in check, and thus, his emotions were starting to make certain decision more tempting than before.

Curling his blood-soaked finger into a ball, Flynn asked, "What do you mean?"

Weselton coughed. His face was a wreck. His skin was littered with scratches. His hands and legs …well…let's say that they were in position that weren't exactly natural. Yet, he was still alive and he could talk. Those to features could be easily removed, but Flynn was still using his brain at this point and didn't do so.

The old man croaked through ugly breaths and wrecking coughs. "You're a monster – a nosferatu," he uttered the word with a sneer, which made Flynn want to hit him again. "You're terrifying, but you're nowhere as terrifying as him."

Flynn paused, crouching down to look into his bloodshot eyes.

Weselton heaved a painful breath, huffing, "We – we want creatures like you vanquished. Yes-" he coughed, and this time, blood splattered down his lips "-we want you decimated from the Earth. But Westergaard- " his gaze was disorientated "-he's not like us. No, no, he's more like-" one of his bent finger attempted to move, pointing towards his assailant. "He wants only one thing, and he'll do anything to achieve it. He's-" cough "-he's unhinged. Uncontrollable. Unpredict-"

"What is that he wants?" came the interruption, urgent.

"-relentless." Weselton's eyes had glazed over, his speech garbled. "Ruthless. Radical. Resentful." He hacked a cough, his cut lips crusted with blood. "Re-remorseful."

And he was dead.

Flynn sighed, sitting down neck to the mangled body of the old Van Helsing agent. He gave a cursory glance at the mess that had been made. Blood, blood everywhere.

He stared down at the red liquid on his hand, then licked it. Still warm. Would be a pity to waste it.

~~~0~~~

She watched when he had carried the body out of the Manor.

She retched when he had uncovered an axe, and chopped the corpse into smaller portions.

She noticed his unusual strength and speed, and also the white fangs protruding over his bloodied lips.

She slunk back into the darkness, storing all she had seen in her mind.

~~~0~~~

Sorry folks. I've been busy running errands, trying to earn some money, stuff like that.

Yes, I'll get around updating all my other stories.

For the next chapter, if I could give a chapter title, it would 'Elsa Alone'.

Oh, yeah. There has been confusion about whether the stuff in the last chapter are in fact part of the story. And the answer is that everything in the last chapter part of the story. The only fake part is the part where I pretended that I was quitting this story, but because I suck at humour, nobody got the joke and confusion ensued. Comedy is hard guys.

Bye.