Chapter One: Welcome to the Rocky Mountains
Author note: This story is the sixty-third in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "When In Rome".
Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.
Full Blurb: In the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, a serial killer stalks his victims through the trees, hunting them the old-fashioned way, with bow and arrow. As the latest victim runs for her life, victim and killer cross paths with one of the few predators even humans fear to cross. A predator with the intelligence and strength to beat a serial killer at his own game – and the heart to save his victim.
The man ran through the woods, stumbling over rocks and branches, but determinedly forging on. He'd lost track of time days ago and now sought simply to survive another hour, another few minutes. At first he'd hoped to find a road or a trail, something that would let him escape, but there was nothing save miles of endless forest. Still, he ran. To give up was to die. He stole another look back and cried out as his feet caught under a tree limb in his path. Something whizzed over him, drawing a terrified wail. He struggled to rise, pain radiating from his ankle, but he couldn't give up. Couldn't die here, miles from his family and civilization.
Yet even as the injured man made it back to his feet and started limping forward once more, two arrows found their mark, burying themselves in the man's back. One arrow punched through, finding the victim's heart. He fell, blood soaking his tattered, grimy clothing. For a few seconds, the man flailed, struggling against the inevitable. Then the limbs stilled, wide brown eyes glazed over, and the final breath hissed out.
From a ridge above, two brunets smirked at each other, the younger congratulating the older, though both brothers were disappointed by how quickly their victim had died. After a minute or two, they vanished back into the forest, well-pleased with their sport. The body and the arrows in its back were left where it had fallen, expression frozen in helpless plea.
A few miles away from the grisly scene, air crackled and expanded with a tiny thump of displaced air. A tawny figure appeared, tumbling to the ground. A plaintive whine escaped; the impact had struck several patches of burned fur and blistered skin; but the animal lapsed back into unconsciousness, lying insensate for several hours.
The sun had risen high in the sky by the time the creature stirred. Paws and wings twitched, feathers ruffling ever so slightly. Fixed hazel eyes blinked open, then closed again with a tiny sigh. Without truly waking, the animal curled, wings folding before one side opened enough for the great head and beak to tuck underneath, the rich yellow hue of the beak flashing before it disappeared. Paws shifted close, the feathered tail lashed around to complete the large furry, feathery ball. The wings as well as the feathered head were a dark brown, save for a ring of feathers around the gryphon's head that had turned gray, fading to white at the very top. Light fell on the wings, revealing a lighter shade of brown behind the leading edge and a few flight feathers on the outer edge of both wings that had turned a pale silvery hue. The tail feathers, likewise, were mostly the same dark brown of the head with two predominantly silver feathers on each side, forming a rough 'V' shape. The gryphon's fur matched the lighter brown of the lower wings, changing to a tan hue on the chest and lightening even further to a pale cream on the underbelly.
Around the gryphon's neck, there was a thick leather collar, inscribed with runes and fastened with an elaborate silver buckle that looked as though the ends had been fused together. Ancient Celtic symbols encircled a coat of arms, all but forgotten. The banner of the rowan tree, the tree red against a black background. Signifying both the binding on the gryphon and acting as warning to any who would tamper with the High Priestess's vengeance. Oblivious, the gryphon slept on.
Not a soul spotted the sleeping animal.
It was not until the following morning that the animal stirred once more. Feathers fluffed, wings rustled, and the gryphon shifted, stretching stiff limbs and muscles as he clambered to his feet. A few contented noises escaped the gryphon's beak and he glanced around, inspecting his surroundings. Wings spread and the animal's stretch was very cat-like, the flexible spine crackling and popping as his back curled, tail arching up, then down. Tail feathers flared wide before flicking closed once more.
Partway through a turn, the gryphon froze, then collapsed down as memory surfaced. What…what had he done? And…and how had he gotten here, wherever here was. Hazel squeezed shut as the animal pummeled his memory. Fire, smoke, his foe lying in a spreading pool of blood. Reaching…reaching for his badge, intending to trigger its Portkey to escape. What had happened next?
Pain throbbed from the back of his head, eking a cringe from the gryphon. Achingly careful, he shifted to lie on his left side, lowering his head down so he could reach up with his right forefoot. One talon touched a lump, drawing a pained yelp. What was he doing? Without moving, he focused, reaching inwards.
A scream ripped through the forest, the cry a mix of bird and cat. Needles jabbed into him, searing pain racing along his limbs and making them tremble. Determination flared and he focused a second time, growling challenge as magic rose. Only to turn on him; he howled as acid flooded him, leaving every vein raw and throbbing. Again, his body shook, helpless against the magic's wrath, and he nearly lost consciousness.
No…I won't…give up… I won't…give up…
A third time, he reached for the well of power within him, gripping it tight and forcing it to bend to his will. He felt it answer, felt his body quiver as the change began, then icy cold invaded, twisting and streaking through his very soul. Agony like absolutely nothing he had ever felt before engulfed him. He heard himself scream, felt himself writhe, then blackness beckoned and he slid into it gratefully.
The second – or was it the third? – time he woke up, his body…ached. As if he'd alternated between getting crushed by a wall and being stretched out on a rack. He felt like he'd been forcibly transformed about six times in a row. Slowly, with throbbing muscles and aching limbs, he struggled back to his feet. Owww. Note to self: Don't do that again. He had a nasty feeling the source of that painful, alien magic was the collar around his neck, but it felt tight enough that he knew he was going to need help getting it off.
Well then. First things first. Limping forward a pace, Greg reached inwards. The collar tingled, drawing an involuntary flinch from the Animagus. Cautious, he tapped against his magic, mentally summoning the 'team sense'. With any luck, he could find a road or something while his teammates were enroute and then he could start apologizing, with all his heart, for lying and pushing them away. For going lethal on Castor Troy and his sister. Regret thrummed, but… His family was alive. That was all that mattered any more.
'Eddie?'
He paused, waiting for his team leader's reply, but there was nothing.
'Eddie? Can you hear me?'
Silence. That wasn't right. Even if Ed was utterly livid with him, he was too good a friend and cop to ignore the 'team sense'. Gingerly, Greg prodded at the power within him, switching to the older emotional communication. As he transmitted a silent plea for backup, the Sergeant 'watched' the link light up, cascading down the distance. Without warning, it simply vanished, as if the emotion had never been.
What? Alarmed, Greg silently demanded answers, tail swishing as he growled at his magic. If he was out of range, that was one thing – unfortunate, if unavoidable – but it hadn't felt like that. No, although his team was a significant distance away, he had the sense that he should be able to communicate. As though his magic ordinarily regarded distance as a mere trifle, hardly worth any consideration. Mentally grimacing, Greg tried again, watching the magic as closely as he could get away with. Again it vanished into the ether partway to its destination, but Parker caught a flash of something right before it vanished. Instinct prickled and Greg tried yet again. Ignoring his own magic, he kept every sense on the collar, eyes narrow with suspicion in his head if not in fact. Prickly, ice cold power surged, cutting the connection.
Greg's heart sank as logic, intuition, and instinct laid out the facts. The links were not blocked, per se, just muzzled. He couldn't hear his team and they, in turn, couldn't hear him. He could tell they were still alive and even where they were in relation to himself – a very long ways away – but he knew this aspect of the 'team sense' better than they. It was possible, no, probable that they believed him dead. A sort of grief descended at the thought of his family mourning his death while he stood in the middle of this blasted forest, very much alive, if trapped in his Animagus form.
Determination stirred, joining with iron will and a stubborn streak that put Eddie's to shame. He couldn't transform, couldn't communicate, and he was lost in the middle of a forest that felt like it was half a continent away from home. It would take weeks, if not months to walk home. His team and his family believed he was dead; if something went wrong during his trek back to Toronto, they would never know. Even worse, he had no one to turn to and he could not risk flying. To be seen would destroy the Statute of Secrecy, which nixed flying and meant that once he reached any sort of main road, he'd have to travel exclusively at night. Unless he happened upon a friendly wizard willing to help, he would have to walk every meter of the way home. The odds of him making it… Well, he had no idea what they were, but they had to be incredibly low.
The gryphon's head rose, hazel glowing with stubborn will. I guess I'd better get started.
It was, however, not nearly so simple. The gryphon limped along, berating himself for being so stubborn as to fight the collar's magic not once, but three times. The retaliation had taken its toll, slowing his pace to a crawl and leaving most of his muscles twitching with residual pain. Even if he'd been willing to fly, his wings were worse off than his legs; Greg was thankful he hadn't broken them. As if his physical woes weren't bad enough, the gryphon soon became aware of a gnawing sensation in his stomach, helpfully reminding him that he hadn't eaten since before his little last-man-standing, battle-to-the-death performance. Nor had he had anything to drink.
The latter, fortunately, was easy enough to deal with; he merely followed his beak to a nearby stream. Drinking was a bit awkward, though it helped that he had some prior experience. The water soothed his throat, still irritated after he'd popped a smoke grenade and sat there while it hissed and filled the air around him. So great was the relief that Greg had to resist the urge to simply duck his head underwater and suck every last drop down. Instead, he crouched at the stream edge, posture very much like a cat as he dipped his beak, snatching a fresh gulp of water with every bob of his head. In between gulps, he lapped at the water. His wings remained folded and he carefully kept them from getting wet; he had no idea how he'd dry the feathers if they did get wet.
It was as he was drinking his fill that a scent drifted to him, one that made his stomach churn and his protective instincts bristle. The unmistakable stench of decomp. Somehow, he knew it wasn't a dead animal, though how his magic could tell the difference, he hadn't a clue. It was downstream, close to the very same creek he was drinking from. He might've mentally shuddered if not for the fact that his magic was convinced the water hadn't been contaminated. Part of him wanted to ignore the dead body in the woods – the locals could worry about it and he had his own problems to deal with – but he knew he wouldn't. If he walked away, the what-ifs would plague him for the rest of his life.
With a mental sigh, he lifted his head and headed downstream in search of the body.
Partway down the stream, he made a new discovery. The ground beneath his talons was rocky. Far more rocky than the forests around Toronto…was he in the mountains? It would explain why he felt slightly short of breath. Cautious, he waded into the creek, huffing in relief when the cold water soothed both paws and talons. Massive wings fluttered, but they were well clear of the wet and besides, he was going to be walking for days. Best to do whatever he could to keep his feet in good condition. He wasn't sure if walking in a stream would provide the same cushioning as a pool, but it was worth a try and might at least keep his feet from getting too sore. At least…that was the idea…
The further he went, the more evident it became that he was in the mountains. Rocks jutted out, the terrain around him angling downwards sharply, and, through a gap in the trees, he caught a glimpse of mountain ranges in the distance. Curiosity stirred and he abandoned the creek to pad towards the gap. When he stepped past the trees, his beak dropped open. Mountains rose around him, gray peaks with vast swaths of green forests and snowy patches higher up. Cliffs higher than any he'd ever seen before towered, some of them so sheer, it was a straight drop down, and others slanted or bulging out, perfect for mountain climbing. Above, the sky was a perfect shade of light blue, with a few puffy clouds drifting serenely in between the peaks. The sun beat down, warming fur and feathers, the heat a balm for aching muscles.
Below him, the range dropped down into a valley; he could see rivers and lakes, all of them with crystal blue water. Scanning the ridges and peaks, he saw more. Waterfalls that ran almost white, a group of bears trundling through the forest on the opposite ridge. Birds calling to each other and flitting through the wind. Trees moved in the wind, their branches creaking every so often; the variety he could see was incredible. Evergreens, aspens, birch trees, and those were just the ones he could identify. Fields of wildflowers, dotted with color and packed with greenery growing taller than he stood. For a moment, the Sergeant felt very small. What were cities compared to this untamed, wild country? What skyscraper could match even one of these mountains?
Cautious, he backed away, wary of being spotted by any hikers or climbers. He couldn't count on distance being enough to protect the Statute. Turning, the gryphon headed back into the trees, retracing his steps to the creek; he needed to find this body, just to settle himself, then he could resume his trek towards Toronto. Without hesitation, he splashed back into the water and made his way downstream, grimacing as the reek of decomp increased. What joy was his, especially since his Animagus form had a lion's keen sense of smell. Thank Aslan that hadn't translated over to his human side. Yet.
When he found the body, he eyed it from a distance for several moments. Murder – one arrow could be passed off as an unfortunate accident, but not two. Wary, the big animal approached, absently grateful that no predators had gotten to the victim yet. The man lay face down, a small mercy given how eerie open, staring eyes tended to be. Even when he'd been in Homicide, he'd never gotten used to it. The clothing looked…grubby. As if the victim had spent a few nights in the woods before his murder. Greg frowned to himself, pacing past the body. Hmmm… The ankle looked wrong, as if the man had turned it not long before dying. Why? Had he been running from something? Did he know his murderer? Possible. The gryphon turned, then stilled as he spied fletching. Bounding away, Greg reached the tree in seconds. Yes…another arrow. But why? Surely the first two arrows had been enough…
Another theory presented itself for consideration. Thoughtful, the Sergeant turned back to the body and headed past it, in the direction the victim had been coming from. He didn't have to look far, just a meter or so past the body, he found a fallen tree limb at just the right height above the ground to act as a trip. He could almost see it, the man looking back instead of ahead, his foot sliding under the branch, then the body flying headlong as the motion of running caught one, perhaps even both legs up in the branch. Hmmmm… If the murderer had fired his arrow at that precise moment, his target would've disappeared, leaving the arrow to fly right into a tree trunk. An acceptable theory, though it put him no closer to solving the crime. Not that he could anyway. The image of himself – in his gryphon form – with a badge and reporting to his superiors on what he'd found at the crime scene drew a snort. He was wasting time…time he could be spending heading home.
And yet… He turned, regarding the victim. This man deserved justice, deserved to have somebody care about what had happened to him. Feathery, furry ears flattened unhappily; there was nothing he could do. He could track, after a fashion, but if the murderer's trail went straight back to a main road, he couldn't follow. Couldn't report the crime or what he'd found. Discouragement trickled in…what good was he without his human form? Sure his gryphon side looked impressive, but what good was it? Good for killing and fighting, that was it. Savage, wild, and unpredictable…that was his gryphon side to a 'T'.
Wings and tail sagged as the transformed, trapped Sergeant turned away from the murder victim in the middle of a mountain forest. Sorrowful, he trudged away, shame and discouragement mixing within him. Useless, that's what he was. Couldn't even help a dead man. His stomach grumbled and he pushed the gnawing away. He didn't deserve anything to eat.
Author note: Surprise! You may now yell at me for my cruel, cruel trick of making you think Greg actually died. *devilish author grin*
Now, just to be all official, chronologically speaking, this story comes right after "Face/Off", not "When In Rome", but for my It's a Magical Flashpoint Collection over on Ao3, I will keep it after "When In Rome" for important storyline reasons.
Also, please remember that any flames will be fed to my Death Knight Tinuvial's Netherwing Drake mount. *wink*
Happy Reading...