Chapter 2

Even under the best of circumstances, Dean wasn't a big fan of tramping around in the wilderness. North Carolina in mid-June wasn't the best of circumstances. The trees provided plenty of shade, so maybe it wasn't as hot as it could've been, but it was still plenty hot, especially in the long jackets they had to wear to cover up the guns. The brochures they'd picked up at the ranger's station near the start of the trail carried on poetically about the waterfalls, the wildlife and the mountain scenery, but totally failed to mention the humidity or the clouds of gnats. Dean felt as if he was wading through molasses. Molasses with bugs in it.

Catherine had not been very exact about the location of the clearing. She'd marked the place where she and Janet had left the trail, and the general direction they'd gone in, but she could give no exact distances or useful landmarks. Janet had done the orienteering, and Catherine had followed along. After Janet's disappearance, she'd spent several hours hobbling around the woods at random until a passing party of hikers heard her cries for help. Hearing the tale, Dean had grimly resigned himself to spending the rest of the afternoon, and possibly the next day, searching for the right spot.

He needn't have worried. The EMF meter began screaming even before they stepped off the trail, every light going off at once. Dean hadn't seen a signal so strong since that vanir in Burkitsville. He sincerely hoped they weren't about to be stuck with yet another pagan god to deal with, because those really sucked. Sam didn't look too thrilled at the prospect either, but there was nothing to be done for it. They followed the signal.

The clearing was about a half-hour's hike off the trail, and it looked so pretty and picturesque in the late afternoon sun that Dean was inclined to suspect it of evil just on principle. The grass was thick and emerald green, dotted with wildflowers, and the water in the stream was crystal clear. Perhaps it was Dean's imagination that made the shadows among the surrounding trees seem extra-dark and extra-thick, but with the EMF meter threatening to vibrate itself to pieces in his hand, he wasn't about to bet on that. He turned off the meter to stop the distracting noise and pulled the largest of the three pistols he was carrying from its shoulder holster.

"Look sharp, Sam. I don't like this place."

"Me neither." Sam had his own gun out. He crouched on the stream bank to peer into the water. "I don't think we'll find anything useful here anyway. It's been over a week, and the cops and the rangers have all tramped through. If there was ever a trail, which I kinda doubt, it's gone by now."

"You're probably right." Dean edged along the border between sunlight and shadow, keeping the gun pointed ahead of him. "But hey, if whatever took Janet is still hanging around, maybe it'll have a go at one of us."

"There's a comforting thought." The click of the safety on Sam's pistol echoed with unnatural clarity in the still air. Dean grinned.

"Don't worry, Sammy. It goes for the good-looking ones, remember? You're safe as houses."

"Uh-uh. Let's hope it doesn't go for the assholes, or you'll really be in trouble."

They circled the clearing on opposite sides, Sam wading across the stream to examine the area where Janet had been standing when she was taken. As Sam had predicted, there was nothing unusual to see, no trail to follow. Certainly nothing that looked like hoof prints. Just grass and flowers and the occasional toadstool and--

Whoa. Dean stopped, lowered his gun and stepped out into the sunlight to peer at the fat, pasty-white mushroom that poked out of the grass near his feet. He'd passed several such mushrooms as he walked, and looking over the clearing now he could see them forming an irregular circle, about thirty feet in diameter, with the stream cutting across it a little off-center. The grass inside the circle looked darker and thicker than outside it, and the flowers seemed to bloom in brighter colors. Dean's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as he realized Sam was standing right at the edge of it, a toadstool half-crushed under one boot heel.

"Yo, Sam!"

"What?"

"Take a step forward, will you?"

"Why?" Sam asked, but he took the step. Dean let out a slow breath.

"Turn around, look down, tell me what you see."

Sam turned. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"The mushrooms. Tell me if you're seeing what I'm seeing."

"The what?" Sam stared at the ground, blankly at first, then with dawning recognition. "Oh, come on. There's no way."

"It's a fairy ring, Sam. I know one when I see one."

"Really? How many times have you seen one?"

"I've seen pictures."

"Right." Sam tucked his gun back inside his jacket and came over to stand next to Dean, carefully keeping his feet outside the ring. "You've seen pictures. Pictures from Europe, I bet. And you know why? Because there's no Fae in North America, Dean."

"Are too. There's a whole Seelie Court in Minneapolis. Dad did a job for them a couple of years ago."

"Dad did a wha--" Sam broke off abruptly and shook his head. "Never mind, I don't want to know. And this isn't Minneapolis."

"If there's one colony, there can be more. Come on, Sam, it makes sense. Fairies like green, woodsy places. And they carry off good-looking young mortals when they get in the mood. And they sometimes put bells in their horses' manes."

"They do?"

"Dad says they do. Apparently, they have a thing for music."

"Right. Fairies like music. It all makes sense now." Sam looked thoroughly flabbergasted, which would've been pretty funny if Dean himself wasn't feeling as if someone had just turned him upside down and given him a good shake. This was way outside their area of expertise. "Okay, say it is the Fae. What do we do about it?"

Dean scratched his head as he pondered the question. "Apologize for disturbing them, back out of here slowly, and run like hell?"

"Not really an option."

"I know. Bummer."

"We need to find out more." Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed. "You do realize that if Janet's been with them for over a week, she's probably eaten or drunk something, right?"

"Yeah, I know." Eat the food of Faerie, and be trapped there forever... Dean thought about Catherine Taylor, fighting back tears in a cafe in Asheville because her best friend was gone. What the hell were they going to tell her? "We'll just have to figure something out, that's all."

"What about the ranger station?" Sam waved one arm in the general direction of the trail. "We should talk to him. I mean, if there are fairies traipsing around the forest ringing bells and abducting people, who else is more likely to notice?"

"It's a start, I guess." Dean slid his gun back into the holster. He took a step toward the trees, then stumbled to an abrupt halt as Sam gripped his arm.

"Dean."

"Yo?"

"Check out those birds."

Dean looked up. Three birds perched side by side on a sycamore branch on the far side of the clearing, looking down at him with strange, unbirdlike intensity. They had smoky gray feathers, fluffy and soft-looking, with brilliant slashes of color on the wings, like racing stripes. The colors were different on each bird -- one red, one yellow, one blue. Dean had never paid any particular attention to birds and their colors, but he was pretty sure that these were not normal.

"Uhm," Dean said. It wasn't especially loud -- just an exhalation, really -- but apparently it was enough to make a disturbance. The birds let out a chorus of soft, tuneful cries and took off all at once, fading into the blue sky far more quickly than they should've. Dean stared after them for a minute, then turned to look at Sam, who spread his arms and shrugged.

"Ranger station?"

"Right. Let's go."

The ranger station was a small cabin with a screened porch and gauzy blue curtains in the windows. From the outside, it looked unnaturally clean and polished, more like a toy than a real place for real people. The windows sparkled, the steps leading up to the porch didn't have a speck of dirt on them despite all the visitors who presumably tramped in and out all day, and the porch itself gleamed as if it had just been varnished. Barbie's Woodland Getaway, Dean thought, and promptly spoiled the cleanliness by tripping over a saucer of milk someone had left outside the door.

"Well, don't cry over it," Sam smirked. Dean glared at him as he picked shards of broken porcelain out of the puddle of spilled milk.

"Ha-ha. See if there's anyone home, comedian."

The middle-aged man who answered Sam's knock was as spit-and-polished as his cabin, in spotless boots and neatly creased trousers. The brass nametag on his uniform shirt pronounced him to be T. W. Carlisle. Sam gave him the patented sincere face, and Dean did his best to match it.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Carlisle. I'm Robert Halford, and this is my partner, Glenn Tipton." He held out the remains of the saucer. "We kinda broke this, sorry. If you have some paper towels or something, we'll clean it up."

"We?" Sam mouthed silently. Dean ignored him.

"Oh, don't worry about it. Just drop the pieces in the waste basket, and I'll take care of it." Carlisle smiled and waved them in, gesturing toward a plush sofa near the window as he hurried toward the doorway at the back of the room.

"Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. I'll be right with you."

Through the doorway, Dean could see one corner of a kitchen -- white formica countertop and a gas stove. Carlisle stepped sideways out of sight, and Dean heard the sound of a refrigerator door opening and closing. A few seconds later, Carlisle reappeared with a new saucer in one hand and a handful of paper towels in the other, and headed for the porch.

Dean prowled around the room while Sam sat on the sofa and looked genuinely engrossed in an old issue of Field and Stream. There wasn't much to see. The place looked like a cross between a private living room and a public waiting area. Besides the sofa, there was a wooden desk with a telephone, a coffee table, a wire rack filled with old magazines and another one holding tourist brochures and trail maps. An oversized poster labeled "Native birds of the Carolinas" was tacked to the wall behind the desk. Everything was as spotless as the porch, not a speck of dust anywhere. Dean looked down at his battered boots and felt he was lowering the tone of the place just by standing there.

"There, all taken care of." Carlisle came back inside and dropped a wad of soggy paper towels into the waste basket. "Don't mind me. There's a feral cat with a litter of kittens nesting under the porch, and I like to put a bit of food out for them when I can. Now, what can I get you two? Tea? Coffee? I've currant buns in the kitchen, baked fresh this morning."

Dean and Sam began to mutter refusals at the same time, but Carlisle would not be put off. Stray hikers, apparently, were in the same category as stray kittens and needed feeding. Within minutes, Dean was sipping some of the best coffee he'd ever had while Sam fished the sprig of mint from his glass of iced tea. A plate of currant buns sat on the coffee table in front of them. Carlisle must've warmed them in the oven, because when Dean tore a piece from one, it scalded his fingers and released a puff of yeast-scented steam. It was all so domestic that Dean had to forcibly remind himself they weren't there for a social visit. He pulled his fake PI license from inside his jacket and told Carlisle the same story he'd given Catherine earlier.

"Detectives?" Carlisle frowned and shook his head. "Seems silly if you ask me. I mean, I'm sorry for that poor girl, and I'm sorry for the family, but I can't imagine what the two of you think you can do, when dozens of people have looked for over a week and didn't find a thing. We even had helicopters out, and... nothing."

"Are people still looking?" Sam asked. Carlisle looked grim.

"They're dredging the rivers now."

"What do you think happened?" Dean asked. Carlisle shrugged.

"I think she wandered off and got lost. Fell down and hurt herself, maybe, couldn't get back to the trails. Happens every year. We keep telling people not to go off the marked paths, but..."

"But she was supposed to be an experienced hiker," Sam said. "She had a compass with her, knew what she was doing--"

"Yes," Carlisle sighed. "Those are the ones that always get into trouble, you know. Just as when someone drowns, often as not there's fifty friends and family crawling out of the woodwork to tell you what a good strong swimmer the victim was. The good ones get reckless, see? Think it can't happen to them."

"Uh-huh." Sam aimed an entirely unwarranted smirk at Dean, who virtuously ignored it. "I've noticed that from time to time."

Time to get to the point, Dean decided. "What about those horses Catherine Taylor heard?"

Carlisle looked amused. "There were no horses. The riding trails are nowhere near that area."

"Still," Dean insisted, "if hikers go off the trails, riders might too."

"There would've been tracks. The ground is soft there, and it had rained just a couple of days before. There's no way a horse could've gone through and left no mark. Take my word for it, that Taylor girl panicked when she saw she was lost, and started hearing things when there was nothing there to hear. People get that way in the woods sometimes."

Panic, in Dean's experience, did not make people hear imaginary horses, either in the woods or out of them. "You live here in the cabin?" he asked.

Carlisle nodded. "Six months out of the year. Decent pay, free room and board, and all the gorgeous scenery I can look at every day. Can't ask for a better job, can you?"

"And you've never heard any unusual noises? No horses, no bells or music?"

"Just the occasional meow under the porch." Carlisle laughed, but Dean thought it sounded a little strained.

Sam had gotten up to wander around the room while Dean and Carlisle was talking. He was on the other side now, peering curiously at the bird poster behind the desk.

"Can I ask you something?" he said abruptly. "We saw some unusual birds when we were looking around earlier, and I don't see them listed here. I don't suppose you'd know what they were? Gray, about this big, bright colored stripes on the wings?"

Carlisle's expression turned pinched for just a second or two, then rearranged itself into a friendly grin again.

"Yes, of course. The Argentinian Wood Dove. You're not going to find it on that poster, or any of the local guides for that matter -- they're not indigenous to the area. Just migrate through every year."

"Argentinian Wood Dove?" Sam repeated blankly. Carlisle nodded vigorously.

"You're fortunate to have seen one. Very few people do. They tend to be shy."

"And we get three all in one spot. Lucky us." Dean drained the last few drops of his coffee and stood up. "Thank you very much for you help, sir. We'll be going now. You ready, dude?" He snagged one last bun from the plate and headed for the door.

Outside, the temperature had dropped about ten degrees while they were sitting around chatting, and the sun was half-sunk behind the Blue Ridge mountains. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced over at Sam, who was zipping up his jacket.

"So what do you think?"

"He's lying," Sam said with perfect conviction. "He knows something."

"Right," Dean said. "I mean seriously -- Argentinian Wood Dove? I've come up with better cover stories than that at two in the morning, drunk off my feet. But I'd bet a hundred bucks we'll never get him to admit it."

"You don't have a hundred bucks."

"I would if I could get somebody to take that bet." Dean slapped a mosquito off the back of his neck and scowled. "Look, we need to put together a plan here. What do we know about fairies? They don't like salt and iron and certain kinds of plants. They steal human babies and leave changelings. What am I leaving out?"

"They're capricious," Sam said. "And sneaky. Some of them can change shapes, or make other things change their shapes. They'll trick you if they can, but they don't tell outright lies and they always keep their word."

"What else?"

"Uhm... they like music and dancing?"

"Oh, that's helpful." Dean scowled. "What do you say we get back to civilization and figure out what to do next? This shit is a bit out of our league. I hate to say this, but I think we need more research."

"See?" Sam said. "I'm a good influence on you."

They walked down the main trail toward the lot where they'd parked the car. It seemed a lot lonelier and darker now than it had earlier in the day, when the sun was blazing and random people in hiking gear passed by every couple of minutes. Dean did not spook easily, yet now he found himself peering from side to side as he walked, searching for movement in the shadows between the trees, holding his breath at the slightest sound. His hand kept twitching toward his gun, though he couldn't say precisely why.

"Something's watching us," Sam whispered from half a step behind him. Dean rolled his eyes.

"No shit, Sherlock. Can you see it?"

"Not exactly. I keep seeing movement in the corner of my eye, but when I turn, there's nothing th--"

The scream made them both jump. It came from a particularly dark thicket of trees to the right of the trail, and it sounded pained and terrified, a woman screaming for her life. Dean had his gun out in an instant, and a quick glance sideways confirmed that Sam had his in his hand, too.

"Could be a trap," Dean muttered.

"Yeah." Sam nodded, looking as unhappy as Dean felt. "But we still have to check it out."

Another scream, even more high-pitched and desperate. Dean swore and took off running in the direction of the sound. Sam was right behind him, and then beside him, and then ahead of him -- a lanky, long-legged shadow racing away with a flashlight in one hand. Dean followed the flickering beam, pushing the limits of his own running speed and hoping that he wouldn't be too out of breath to fight by the time they found whatever it was they were looking for.

Something clawed at his ankle and he went down, belly flopping into the dirt and banging his chin on the ground hard enough to leave him dazed for a few seconds. He managed to hold on to the gun when he fell, but there was nothing to shoot at, and a quick grope with his free hand established that his attacker was nothing worse than a protruding tree root. A very grabby root, and by the time Dean got himself free and climbed to his feet, Sam was just a faint, bobbing light in the distance. Dean raced after him, yelling his name, but Sam was still running too, and the distance between them never seemed to grow closer, not even when Dean broke into a sprint.

"Sam!" he yelled again, but his voice was drowned out by a sudden onslaught of fast, rhythmic drumming. It took Dean several moments to recognize the noise as hooves running on soft ground.

Hooves. Horses. And now that he was listening for them, he could hear the bells, too, along with something that sounded like horns in the background. Oh, fuck. Dean froze for a moment, and in that moment, between one breath and the next, Sam's light went out.

"Sam!" Dean stumbled forward, panic bubbling up inside him. The forest around him was pitch black now, night instead of dusk, as if hours rather than minutes had passed since they'd left the trail. Dean dug through his pockets with his left hand, pulled out his own flashlight and switched it on. The beam picked out trees, grass, some dead branches scattered on the ground. No horses. No dancing fairies. And most of all, no Sam.

Dean turned in a circle, gun and flashlight held straight out in front of him, and saw nothing but empty forest, even though the hoof beats thundered all around him. Once, a horse snorted right into his ear, and he actually felt the puff of hot air on the back of his neck, but when he whirled around there was nothing there. Once, he thought he heard a woman's laughter, clear and cold, and something gauzy and flower-scented brushed across his face. Dean's finger itched to send a bullet in that direction, but he couldn't risk it, not without knowing exactly where Sam was.

"Dean!" The cry came from off to the side, nowhere near the spot where Dean had last seen the gleam of Sam's flashlight. Or what he'd thought was Sam's flashlight. Dean lunged in the direction of Sam's voice, mentally cursing himself out for being an idiot. He'd followed a will-of-the-wisp, trailed after it like a fucking amateur, and now Sam was-- Sam was--

The hoof beats were retreating into the distance now. Dean started to follow, but stopped when his flashlight picked out a metallic gleam on the ground ahead of him. Sam's spare pistol clip, lying discarded in the grass. A quick search revealed another clip, then the gun itself, then Sam's pocketknife. Dean shouted again, but he knew it was no use.

Sam was gone.