Disclaimer: See first chapter.

Moonlight Becomes Her

"Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody." -Mark Twain

Hardy was in his element, a panther in the jungle after its much slower, dumber prey. He grinned maliciously, shadows twisting the corners of his mouth in the full light of the moon as he circled the injured female officer. The moonlight illuminated the contours of her face, so beautifully contorted in a grimace of pain. No doubt caused by the ankle she seemed to be nursing.

Exquisite. Not quite as lithe as the doctor or as formidable a foe as the male officer had been, but given the look of pained determination on her face as she gingerly placed some weight on her twisted ankle, he surmised that she would be one hell of a conquest. The dark curtain of her hair, cresting her shoulders looked silken to the touch and his fingers longed to caress the ebony locks. Her forehead glistened with sweat from her effort to walk on the injured limb, but her jaw was locked in obstinacy. In a word, she was: bewitching. Much as his own mother had been before she had died, before his uncle had taken him in. Before his career as a hunter had begun.

Prentiss gritted her teeth, and grasping the rough trunk of a tree, rose to her feet. She was needed by Rossi, Peters, Carter, Reid and Aiken. She'd be damned if she was going to let something like a twisted ankle hinder her in the search for her colleagues and friends. Wincing slightly at the pain elicited when she put a small amount of her weight on the injured limb, she grimaced and stood to her full height, ignoring the stabbing pain that shot up from her ankle through her thigh. Standing to her full height, she squared her shoulders and bit down on the pain. She began to painstakingly work her way forward, moving from tree to tree.

Peters circled once more, certain he had heard a struggle of some sort and certain he had heard someone's stifled cries. Lowering once again into a crouching position, he allowed his eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, to search the forest around him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled in anticipation of danger. Excitement and fear coursed through his veins, heating his body, engaging his nervous system in a 'fight-or-flight' response.

In an effort not to flee, he clamped his jaw down hard, ignoring the tense creak it elicited as his teeth ground together. He felt it in his gut, aflame with self-doubt, nervous tension, and eager anticipation. His body was primed in expectancy of an impending kill.

This tell-tale fire in his gut reigned in stakeouts, hunts and when his life was in danger. He had learned long ago how to control it, how to hone it into a skill much as his primitive ancestors had done. He could remain still and listen to his instincts. They had saved him on numerous occasions, had helped him execute a kill on others, and guided him through crises. He knew they would guide him even now if he listened to them and did not give way to the fear which iced through him as the moon drifted out from behind a cloud and suddenly illuminated a grisly scene before him.

Carter, eyes open, sightless, lay dead a mere three feet from him. He knew, in the measure of a heartbeat, that the same moon which illuminated his dead partner was giving their mutual enemy an unhindered view of him. The moon, in all its glory, was acting as a spotlight.

Peters, again, acting on instinct alone, darted into the shadows, searching his surroundings for the man who'd murdered Billy, the convenience store clerk, and Carter. The man they had been searching for in connection with the murder of Mrs. Randall and Braden, the man they sought in connection with the disappearance of Aiken and Agent Reid.

Rossi stopped and closed his eyes, listening. Stilling his breathing, he tuned out his heartbeat, he could now hear past the sounds of the forest. He could hear someone tentatively walking in his direction, moving from tree to tree. The footfalls were uneven. Frowning, Rossi stretched his sense of hearing further and made out the sounds of someone shuffling in the underbrush.

Opening his eyes, he headed in the direction of the faltering footsteps, the beam of the flashlight bouncing jovially off the ground in places where the moonlight did not reach. Drawing his weapon, he toggled the safety off and carefully made his way forward.

Prentiss swept her hair away from her face, huffing with the effort of taking yet another painful step forward. It was painstaking work making her way through the heavy, rain dewed forest with a throbbing ankle. She paused, resting against a veined tree. She let out a shaky breath, spilling the air from her lungs in a hiccoughing exhalation which burned her lungs. Though she had only been walking, it felt like she had been running a marathon on her injured ankle. The heat and humidity, now that the rain had ceased, made the air seem thick and close. She took a couple of deep breaths, pulling the muggy air into her lungs and exhaling in long shuddery expirations until her breathing had resumed to normal. Her temples began to throb in rhythmic imitation of the pulsating tempo of her ankle. Great, she groaned, headache to match my twisted ankle.

The effort of walking on her ankle had caused droplets of sweat to bead along her brow and, raising a shaky hand, she wiped at it, inadvertently smearing dirt and blood on her face. She had scraped the palms of her hands during her fall and, in the anemic light of the moon, it looked ghoulish. Grimacing in disgust, she wiped her palms on the front of her jeans and wiped at her face once more. Shit, I am going to look like I've gone through a war by the time I make it back to the team.

A twig snapped nearby and Prentiss' head jerked up; pulling her weapon out she trained it in the direction of the sound.

"Reid?" She called out tentatively, the sound barely carrying in the weight of the forest.

She waited a heartbeat before calling out, "Rossi?"

The stillness of the forest around her remained undisturbed save for the sounds of her own labored breathing, "Carter?"

Something wasn't right, the unnatural quiet ensuing the creaking disturbance was pressing in on her.

"Peters?"

It was as though the forest had gone mute, nothing moved anywhere and Emily's world was suddenly condensed to that of herself and the silent woods surrounding her.

"Aiken?"

The stagnant air threatened to choke her. Who or what the hell was out there and why didn't he answer?

"Rossi?" She tried again; they had started out in closest proximity to each other at the beginning of this whole debacle.

Though her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, she knew that whoever or whatever had startled her was within hearing distance and tried once more, "Reid? Carter? Peters? Aiken?"

Steal gripped her heart in an icy cold grasp, sending it into slow motion before once again resuming its steady, frantic drumbeat against her ribs. The skin on her arms prickled as she shivered in the warm air and the hairs at the base of her neck stood on end.

Get a grip Prentiss, she scolded herself, it's probably just a harmless animal, a rabbit or deer. No sense in being afraid, you've handled yourself better in true life-and-death situations, this is nothing in comparison. Okay, no time for pep talks move it.

She shoved herself away from the trunk of the tree she had been resting against and a matching snap of a nearby twig mirrored her movement as though she was in some absurd de facto chess game. This is ridiculous! She tightened the grip on her gun and worked her way toward the back of the tree, away from the source of the sound and from the foraging tendrils of the moonlight which bathed her in an ethereal glow.

Swallowing hard against the irrational fear which threatened to envelop her in short order, she kept her gun trained on the darkness before her, using the tree as a natural shield. Fear, much to her annoyance, had given her the momentum to propel her around the base of the tree. The twin throbbing in her head and ankle had been numbed by that sweet elixir, adrenaline, which also served to sharpen her eyesight, giving her a shadowy view of her stalker. Not an animal after all, but the bulky form of a man, hunched in the undergrowth.

"Look," her voice sounded strained and foreign in the hitherto dormant air of the forest, "I don't know who you are, but come of there with your hands up."

Though her heartbeat had drowned out her words, she spoke with unmitigated, growing confidence.

After all, she had been in trickier situations as a teen living abroad.

"I'm a federal agent, come out of there with your hands up!"

Instead of revealing himself, as Prentiss requested, he further concealed himself from her view in the canopy of the forest. The moon, a beacon revealing her location, served to shield her pursuer as he moved with haste into the concealing shadows. She had no clear line of sight and doubted that the beam of her flashlight would penetrate the thick shade of the forest. Cursing herself, Emily scanned the deep woods for better shelter.

Rossi stepped into the light of the moon and stopped. Looking to his left and right cautiously, he listened and caught the sounds of a whisper lingering on the torpid night air. Was that Emily? He listened for the space of a second and headed in the direction of the strained voice. Fear gripped him in an iron tight fist – something wasn't right. Shrugging off the trepidation he felt, he jogged toward where he hoped to find Emily.

There, bathed in the sanctifying light of the moon stood Sekhmet in the flesh, the Egyptian goddess of hunting and courage, sent to him by the gods themselves as a gift. Surely there was no worthier hunter than himself…who else reveled in the kill as much as he did…who else had proven to be an irrefutable master of life and death as Sekhmet herself was? Surely there was no one else deemed meritorious enough to be graced with her presence, no one else who rejoiced in the kill as much as he did. No one else who shared her bloodlust as much as he. Hardy smiled in self-adulation, his teeth gleaming white in the near darkness.

Shuffling toward his partner's body, Peters swallowed the bile that had arisen unbidden in his throat. Carter had been an excellent officer. It angered him that the young officer's life had been ended not three yards from where he had crouched in the shelter of the brush. He had failed his partner. Had the young officer called out to him for help? He couldn't remember hearing a sound issue from the now bluing lips. He should have acted less cautiously when he had heard the apparent scuffle; if he had, maybe Carter would still be alive.

Closing his eyes against the impending tears, he didn't deserve to feel anything but self-loathing, not pity or remorse, those were empty feelings. He had failed his partner, simple as that. The dead eyes stared back at him, dull and dark, void of the joyful light which had more often than not been held within their murky depths. It wasn't with accusation that they now looked up at him in their coolness; instead they held a measure of undeserved forgiveness in them. Carter, even in his death, embodied the art of mercy.

Kneeling next to his partner's body, he reached down and, knowing that this did not always work, attempted to close the lifeless eyes. Warmth, belying Carter's deceased state, emanated from the body as it cooled in the sultry night air. The moon, in its ghostly manner, shone down on Carter, illustrating the odd angle at which his neck was craned and the bruises which had accompanied his struggle with his killer. Brushing his shaky hands on his knees, Peters sighed in relief. The eyelids had been obedient, closing over the defunct eyes. Carter now looked as though he was slumbering peacefully.

Turning his head away as grief momentarily overtook him; Peters noticed a pair of footprints, distorted in the mud. They led toward an area heavily guarded by brush.

"What is hidden there?" he asked his dead partner, knowing he would not get a response.

He stood, hating to leave Carter's body, but not wanting his partner's death to have been in vain either. He followed the disfigured imprints, being careful not to deface them. Maybe they would lead him to the killer.

The way her dark hair framed her lovely oval face was enchanting, especially backlit as it was by the luster of the moon. Her face, as unblemished as Dr. Reid's, glistened with sweat. The dirt and blood she had unwittingly transferred from the palms of her hands only served to enhance the otherworldly beauty of his immortal Sekhmet rendered mortal. Hardy basked in her glorious luminosity. She was his Egyptian maiden and he her Pharaoh slated to conquer her in this oneiric moonlit night.

He imagined her face alight with pleasure and pain, her lithe body panting beneath his as they struggled for dominancy. Her commanding, yet huskily feminine voice would be a melodious symphony as she succumbed to his superior skills. A deep growl emanated from the pit of his stomach, the release he'd gotten from killing the officer had not been enough to satiate him and the fire burned once more in his groin.

Sekhmet: lioness, huntress, goddess divine, Hardy intoned, prepare to meet your match. You will find no worthier challenger.

He took a careful, measured step toward his goddess, not wanting to alert her to his movement, hoping to catch her unawares, yet knowing, even as he did so, that she would intuit his action, no matter how slight. He was rewarded for his undiluted worship of her heretofore unopposed skills when she altered her position in correspondence with his modest change of position. They were perfectly in tune with each other, a match literally made in heaven. To master her would be to master the world.

Her blood, the veritable nectar of the gods and goddesses he had worshiped as a child, would serve as ample reward for his most triumphant kill yet. It would be his to imbibe and gain insurmountable vitality from as he partook of the gift the gods had bestowed upon him for his lifelong servitude. His soul would be cleansed when he spilled her blood and suckled at her willing breast gleaming red with its savory crimson bounty.

Grinning in voracious longing, he gripped the bone handle of his knife. Using the shadows for cover, he moved closer toward his intended target, relishing in her awareness.

Prentiss felt it in her gut, she needed to move. Someone was closing in on her, like a lion stalking its prey. She'd be damned if she was going to be anyone's prey. Though she strained to hear which direction the sound of movement was coming from, she had a difficult time distinguishing whether it was coming from the left or the right. The trees distorted the sound, and the stillness of the dank air amplified it, making it seem close and yet far away at the same time.

She tightened her grip on the weapon she held and calmed her breathing. Allowing fear to rule her even for a moment was unacceptable and could make her life forfeit. Telling herself that there was nothing to fear, she was a well-trained and armed federal agent, she took the safety off of her weapon and moved into the shadows, away from the support the tree had momentarily offered her.