xxx

Life was a test, a test which you took without any lessons or prior reading and never found out the mark you got for until it was way too late.

Sara was used to that. Growing up with Jean Lucian, who wouldn't answer questions if she thought there was a harder way to make Sara find out the answer, had acclimatised her pretty thoroughly. Everything was a test. She knew that. But she couldn't always figure out what was being tested.

"A roadhouse?" she asked, looking up at the lit sign. "Let me guess. Harvelle's a Hunter?"

"Was. His wife runs the place now, still stays in contact with a lot of Hunters. Place should be full of them."

"...You want me to socialise?"

"People can't call the exorcist if they don't know the exorcist."

She knew better than to ask if he was coming in with her. Sara had never needed anyone holding her hand and she wasn't about to start now. "Can you not do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sound like my grandmother," Sara snapped and got out of the truck. Okay, that had been illogical, but she was allowed five minutes of unreasonable anger. Or at least the few seconds it took to cross to the roadhouse's door.

There were a handful of various vehicles surrounding the roadhouse. Some trucks, cars, a motorbike or two. Hunters knew better than to advertise their profession, but all of them showed evidence of hard driving. And, hanging from one rear-view mirror, was a charm-bundle.

So Hunters did have some sort of independent network. Sara knew that all Hunters knew other Hunters and messages and tactics often got passed from circle to circle faster than a Wendigo could manage, but those networks depended on individuals. If those individuals were lost, it could take months to re-establish the links. It wasn't like Hunters could advertise meetings in the local paper. But Amelia had always insisted on Sara staying out of the Hunters' way. There were a handful of exceptions and one or two Hunters that she knew by name and phone number only, like Jefferson, but this would be the first time she came face to face with a Hunter that hadn't been verified by someone she trusted with her life.

With that sort of anticipation, it was hardly surprising that the roadhouse was a bit of a let-down. A bar, some tables and chairs, some pool tables, a battered jukebox. All normal for a watering-hole. But the drinkers...

They were mostly men, with only three women that Sara could see, and all dressed in stubbornly practical work clothes. Tattered jeans, well-worn boots, flannel shirts. The uniform of Hunters. Sara counted five scars, twelve pistols and eight blades before she reached the bar. They way they sized Sara up as she walked in singled them out as men who knew that chaos really could come in small packages. While none reached for a weapon, they didn't immediately write her off as a threat either.

Her own appearance probably helped with that. For once, she was unarmed, but she moved like a Hunter and she had no qualms about meeting eye contact. The important thing was not to seem weak or scared. So she kept her head held high and face calm as she approached the bar. Lucian arrogance was good for something, it seemed.

"What can I get for you, sweetie?" asked the woman standing behind the bar.

Sara didn't drink much, preferring control to intoxication. But she doubted that ordering water would be the best starting move.

"Got any Glenmorangie?"

The woman nodded, already setting a glass in front of her. "Not many people ask for that... Lucian."

Sara didn't miss how several Hunters pricked up their ears. "That obvious, huh?" she commented with a faint smile. Ordering her mother's favourite drink might not have been the best idea if she wanted to lay low, but Sara needed attention.

"Well, I heard about what happened. Your mom always said you'd come through that door over her dead body. Ellen Harvelle."

"Sara Lucian. I can't imagine my mother in a place like this. No offence."

"Oh, I haven't seen Amelia in years. She spent quite a bit of time here before that, though."

"You have contact with other Hunters?"

Ellen smiled. "They'll be putting my girl through college."

Sara slid a scrap of paper across the bar. "The new number for possessions. A head's up is always appreciated."

"Kid's going to need more than that to be able to do a damn thing."

Sara turned. The speaker was a Hunter, had to be, a little younger than John and with a sense of arrogance that John lacked entirely. She was well aware of the other Hunters listening in and raised her voice to make it easier for them. "You got a name or just a nasty attitude?"

"Chris."

"And you doubt my capabilities?"

He shrugged. "You're just another kid full of half-baked romantic ideas. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

"Really? I helped with my first cleansing when I was nine. First hunt when I was sixteen. Did my first solo exorcism when I was nineteen." Yeah, so she was only twenty-one, but this idiot didn't know that. "When did you start fighting, o ye of utmost knowledge?"

"Leave the girl alone, Lewis," said another Hunter. "Lucian wouldn't bother with a dud trainee."

"Lewis?" Sara repeated and memory flicked a card. "Christopher Lewis, I should've known. You're the one who tried an exorcism in Louisiana, right? Uh, ninety-nine, I think it was. And as I recall, you would've been possessed yourself if my mother hadn't been there to bail your worthless butt out of trouble. So how about you leave the work to them that are fit for it, okay?"

She was asking for the punch that Chris gave her and stayed stubbornly on her feet as he faced her, waiting for her retaliation.

"Someone care to tell me the rules for roughhousing in here?" she asked the room in general, wiping a trickle of blood away from her lip.

"You break it, you buy it," Ellen said.

Sara nodded and belted Chris across the face, following the punch immediately with a jab to the stomach, winding him.

"Tell me that doesn't apply to the clientele," she commented as Chris doubled over.

That got an appreciative chuckle from a Hunter or two. Sara snapped her knee up to hit Chris under the jaw, knocking him over.

"You get up again, I knock you right back down," she told him firmly, planting a foot on his chest a little more forcefully than was strictly necessary. "Now, Chris, my lad, this is how it's going to be. I'm going to do what my mother taught me to do. You're going to leave the exorcisms to me. Because while I am very similar to my mother in terms of abilities, I cannot abide uppity little gits like you. You get in trouble again, I won't get involved. Not until you're in enough shit that every Hunter in America is gunning for you even after I rip the demon out of you. We clear?"

Chris glared.

"Good," she said with a bright smile. "As for the rest of you gentlemen, I look forward to working with you. Assuming there are no other issues."

When no one said anything, Sara finished off her scotch, handed over payment to Ellen and headed for the exit. She hadn't come to socialise, just make a point and it seemed her point had been made.

She hadn't paid a huge amount of attention to the Hunter sitting by the door when she walked in, just registered his presence in case something went wrong. Walking back, however, gave her a prime view of this particular man. Her very favourite arms' dealer.

Caleb offered a faint smile and gestured at the other chair. After a moment's hesitation, Sara sat down.

"Didn't peg you as a social butterfly," she said, leaning back.

"John told me you'd be here. Thought you might need some backup."

"Not quite the vote of the confidence I was hoping for."

"Because a girl can so easily take on a bar full of Hunters all by herself."

"But she can probably sneak out of the back door when everyone starts fighting everyone else." She shifted forward in her chair. "I should get going, Cal."

He nodded. "If you need anything..."

"Oh, can you get me another load of silver bullets? I'm almost out."

Caleb sighed. "Not what I meant, Sara."

"Do you really think that I want to mourn my mother by jumping into bed with a Hunter?"

"I just thought you might want some comfort."

Sara let some of the Lucian edges soften. "Comfort can be found in many forms, Caleb. And I'll take mine in silver bullets."

"I thought you didn't want to become that person," he said as she reached the door.

"Looks like that person kinda became me," she replied. "I'll see you around."

xxx

At Sara's request, John dropped her off just outside of Clifton, Wisconsin. With one duffel slung over a shoulder and the other held in one hand, she slowly walked to the house she shared- had shared with her mother.

Amelia Lucian had chosen Wisconsin almost as random. She'd needed a place to live, somewhere to catch her breath and plan the next job and, as she moved further from hunting and dedicated herself to tracking instead, she'd needed a place to store her research. But it had never been a home and now that Amelia was gone, Sara wanted nothing more than to get out of there.

Of course, it wasn't that simple. Before she could do anything with the house, Sara would have to clear it of any supernatural traces, not to mention sort out all the paperwork. That at least would be fairly simple, just time consuming. Sara knew her mother kept everything in meticulous order. Will up to date, legal documents carefully stored and ready to go, all placed neatly in the bottom right hand drawer of her mother's desk.

Yeah, it was kinda wrong that she'd known that since she was eleven, but whatever.

The Lucians had been working since the days when witch-hunting had been a respected career. Over the hundreds of years, the rewards and bounties had added up to a tidy sum which, thanks to some shrewd investments, had paid for this house, Sara's education, even the silver bullets she was so fond of. Due to some old legal hoo-ha, all of that went straight to Sara as the sole Lucian. If Sara ever had a child, the money would become theirs immediately with Sara only holding it in trust. It was a nice and entirely legal trick to get around inheritance tax. But Amelia had left a list of bequests, in a way, not written down by calmly discussed and explained a few years back.

Sara put the will to one side and picked up the next document. The lease for the house. How typical was that? Amelia had been living in America for almost twenty years and she was still only renting a home. No, not a home. A house. That was all it had ever been and Sara wasn't going to let herself get sentimental now.

Okay, so rent was paid monthly. Cool. Sara just had to call the owner, break the lease and all would be good. That meant she had two weeks to sort out some other accommodation. Or maybe she could live out of motels. That worked well for Hunters, and with the invention of mobile phones, she hardly needed to be easily to find geographically. Be more flexible, as well. Of course, she'd need to find a decent place to store the Lucian Diaries, not to mention the ways of tracking possessed hosts.

Slowly, quietly, she pulled the bottom left hand drawer of the desk open. A loaded Beretta, always of great comfort. Just as calmly, she pulled her hand back, leaving the gun where it was.

She looked up. "You know, normal people ring the bell."

Dean was leaning against the doorframe. "Yeah, well, I ain't normal."

"True enough," Sara said.

"You ok?"

"Got to hit a guy. Made me feel oddly better. I should be worried by that, right?"

"Probably. So where did Dad take you?"

"Just to meet some Hunters. Damn, Dean, I don't know what Mum did but it seems they have faith in me just 'cause Mum said I could do it." She offered Dean a smile. "Don't tell 'em that she said I couldn't for eighteen years of my life, 'kay?"

"You're gonna do fine, Sara. Better than fine."

"The Atwoods know, right?"

"Yeah. I told them."

"Thanks," Sara said, picking up the documents and pushing her chair back.

Dean sighed. "Okay, what?"

"Huh?"

"You got that look again. The one that says you're about to tell me something I don't wanna hear."

"I have to leave for a few days."

"I was right. I didn't wanna hear that. Where're you going?"

"England. Need to talk to some people."

"Your mom had a fan club?" But it wasn't said mockingly. That was just Dean being Dean. Why ask politely when there was a chance to be a git?

"Not really. I have to talk to her lawyers. Should probably give the Westwoods an update. Gran's family," she added.

"Yeah, I remember. I thought they hated the Lucians."

"They do. But they're still family in a twisted sort of way."

Dean nodded. "We're good at that, aren't we?"

"A little too good, probably. I gotta go. See you when I get back?"

"'Course. Mind if I hang here 'till then?"

Sara shrugged. "Make the most of it, Dean. I'm gonna move out asap. Any chance of you packing up all the Lucian Diaries for me? They're all in here." She gestured at the bookshelves.

"Sure thing. Hey," he said.

Sara turned back. "Yeah?"

"You're sure you're okay?"

"I'm always okay, Dean, remember?"

xxx
St. Michael and All Angels Church,
London, England

St. Michael's was, for lack of better term, the Lucian family church. It was a couple of hundred years old and was mentioned in just about every Lucian Diary that still existed. Sara remembered it pretty well. She'd been baptised here, although of course she didn't remember that, and had visited at least once a year for the first ten years of her life, mostly to commemorate the death of her grandfather. By all rights, Jean Lucian's funeral should've been held here as well, but Amelia had chosen another church seemingly at random. Sara tried not to think about that too much.

St Michael's open door policy had made it depressingly easy to scope the place out and when Sara returned at quarter to midnight, the locks proved way too easy to pick. Resisting the urge to track down the priest and give him a lecture on proper security, Sara stepped into the darkened church. There was some light from the street-lamps on the street outside, fake yellow light making the church look slightly bizarre. She pulled out her torch anyway. Unlike the standard pocket torches favoured by most Hunters, Sara's was longer and heavier. Made a good club as well as a light source.

At the East end of the church was the High Altar, right against the wall. Like many churches, St. Michael's now had a second altar slightly further into the church, but Sara was only concerned with the High Altar. Behind it was the Lucian crypt. She just prayed- hoped that the entrance was still useable.

By all rights, she'd done all she needed to in England. Spoken to the family lawyers, made some arrangements for her mother's bequests, even tracked down the remnants of her grandmother's family, the disapproving Westwoods. That had gone truly terribly, but who cared. Sara had done what she'd set out to do and that was good enough for the moment. But this...

This was important.

And that would hold so much more weight if she could just explain to herself why.

Sara reached one arm behind the altar, stretching and working blind until her fingers caught on the cracked carving and she could pull it sharply toward her. The crypt had been built into the church all right, but it had always been hidden. The entrance unsealed and she could manipulate the cover until she could slip through.

The crypt was small, cramped and dusty. Nothing too special, just a stone box with shelves filled with small urns or boxes of ashes. All that was left of the Lucians. One wall, the east wall, was covered in smooth wooden planks, with a list of names engraved in tiny letters. And, right at the bottom and scratched in shakily, amateurishly, was:

"Jean Lucian," she whispered, tracing the name. So her mother had cared. Cared enough to sneak here on her own, to scratch Jean's name next to that of the man she had married.

Sara knelt on the stone floor, slipped her backpack off her shoulders. Her battered black backpack, the latest in a long line of black backpacks. She always found replacements which were as close to the current one as possible. Just another quirk in her already twisted self. She opened the bag and pulled out a package of herbs, the standard battered tin bowl, a box of matches. A cleansing of sorts.

Open the packet, tip the herbs out, be careful not to spill any. Ritual movements, habit and method and tradition all mixed up until Sara couldn't draw the line between what was her and what was someone else. Her eyes prickled and Sara blinked furiously. This wasn't the time to start crying again. It didn't do any good. It wouldn't get the job done. So suck it up and keep going.

The Diaries were pretty clear about this particular ritual. It wasn't magic, not a real cleansing or anything, just a... remembrance. Sara's faith had been shaky since she was a kid and this had pretty much decimated it, but she managed to say the right words as she light a match and set the herbs on fire.

"Remember, O Lord, the God of Spirits and of all Flesh, those whom we have remembered and those whom we have not remembered, men of the true faith, from righteous Abel unto today; do thou thyself give them rest there in the land of the living, in thy kingdom, in the delight of Paradise, in the bosom of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, our holy fathers, from whence pain and sorrow and sighing have fled away, where the light of thy countenance visiteth them and always shineth upon them."

As she waited for the herbs to burn out, she flicked open her pocket knife and added Amelia's name to the board. It wasn't that easy and she nearly sliced her own thumb off, but it was done by the time the herbs were gone.

"Poor bastards," she murmured, looking over the names one last time. "Poor, stupid bastards."

Shaking her head, Sara gathered up her things and left the crypt.

And when Father Isaac reentered the church the next morning, he found a note pinned to the door.

God helps those who help themselves. Replace the locks.

xxx
Clifton, Wisconsin

"So, this box is going with the Atwoods," Dean said. "And that one?"

Sara looked up to see which one he was pointing at. "Uh, to Pastor Jim. Actually, hang on, was that one for Bobby?"

"I thought it was that dude in Canada, uh, Maxwell," Adrian said.

"No, it's this one that's going to Canada," Will asserted.

"Boys, shut it for a minute," Sara said firmly. "I've already Fed-exed the books for Maxwell. The boxes from upstairs are going with the Atwoods to Black Earth. No others, we clear?"

"Yes, Sara," the Atwoods chorused, grinning.

"Already loaded up," Will added. "Just messing with you."

"Should've known," Sara replied. "I'll meet you guys there later."

The two brothers left, Adrian giving Dean a friendly punch to the arm as he passed.

"As for the others..." Sara pulled a box toward her. "Solomon, Psammetichus... Okay, this is Jim's and so's that one. Which means the other three are for Bobby."

"How come Bobby gets more?" Dean asked.

"'Cause that's the way Mum divided it up. Bobby gets more books, Pastor Jim gets more cash for his church. All the demon tracking stuff is on its way to Black Earth and my new home. Mum's stuff to Goodwill." Except for the few personal possessions that Sara had hidden away guiltily. "And voila. All done."

"You know, I'm kinda gonna miss this place."

Sara passed him one of the last boxes. "The Atwoods' home is just as convenient, Dean. Besides, it's not like I'm going to be spending all my time at home, no matter where I live."

"Road-tripping is overrated."

"Says the guy who views his car as an extension of his soul."

"I just mean... You don't have to do everything like a Hunter."

Sara paused. "You remember when Sam left, and I told you that trying to limit the effect hunting has on your life is like trying to hold back the Nile with a teaspoon? That rule still applies. Anyway, isn't doing things like a Hunter better than doing them like a Lucian? Now, come on. I told the owner I'd be out of here by lunch."

So Dean smiled and helped her shift the boxes, making jokes all the time, despite the prickle of worry that he could feel. He was a Hunter, he had good instincts and right now, he knew that Sara wasn't okay and that this not-okayness went way beyond the death of her mother. But maybe if he did his best to stick around, he could figure out what and how to deal with it before it got Sara killed.

xxx
1st October,
The Rainy River, Minnesota

Sara found it harder than she would've liked to get away from Dean and the Atwood brothers. Sweet guys, all three of them, but after only a week she was ready to smack one -or all- of them in the face. But once her plan was sort of finalised, it was easy enough to slip away on the pretence of a hunt. Admittedly, none of them knew that she was actually only about a quarter of an hour from the spot where her mother had died, but what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

She killed the bike a short distance from the river bank and left her helmet and jacket draped over it. A few key items were pulled out of her bag; a pair of silver charms on fine chains wrapped around her wrists and a flat stone pendant hung around her neck. Sara looked from the river to a nearby tree. That one would do. She'd been climbing trees since she was a kid and it was easy to pull herself up, even with the two golden coins clutched in one hand.

Carefully, she edged along one branch until she was over the river and took a deep breath.

"Deomai de sou," she said clearly. "Epitrepson moi eiserchesthai, oraein ton porthmea."

And jumped.

Her feet hit stone, her legs gave way, so Sara ended up on her hands and knees. She was still by the bank of a river, but not the Rainy River. This river was unnatural, old and thoroughly creepy. The River Styx, the barrier between the land of the living and the land of the dead. She couldn't see the massed ranks of those waiting to cross over, but there was an annoying flicker in the corner of her eye that told her they were there. Somewhere.

"Shit. It worked."

"Well, of course it worked, kid. Otherwise you'd be floating to the coast."

Sara looked up. "...Charon?"

"The one and only," the legendary ferryman said. He didn't look bad for someone who was three-thousand-plus years old, despite the frown. Really, he looked like some of the Oxford students Sara had seen punting back in England. "Do I know you?"

"Uh... Well, it's my first time here. Is that your boat?"

The boat in question was tiny and made of grey wood. Sara could almost see the holes in it.

"Hasn't let me down yet." Charon looked her over carefully. "Kid, you're still alive. What the hell are you doing here?"

Sara stood up, opening her hand. "My... my mother wasn't buried properly. I came to pay her fare." Cautiously, she stretched out her hand, the two coins glinting in her palm.

"Huh. Name?" A clipboard appeared in Charon's hands.

"Amelia Lucian."

The clipboard vanished again. "She's already gone, kid. Moved on about a week ago."

"Oh. Okay, then." She threw the coins into the boat. "Payment in advance, then. For the next poor sod who can't pay."

"You know the way back?"

"Yeah. Did my homework. I guess I'll see you later," Sara said. "Where did you take her?" she asked, looking carefully at the ground.

"Only way for you to know that is to sail out yourself."

She looked up at Charon again. "Don't think it's quite my time for that, sir."

Charon laughed. "Oh, with your genes, kid, you don't have to wait for your time."

Sara's mouth tightened. "Maybe not. But you won't see me here again before that, you hear me?"

"Makes no never mind to me, kid. I'm just the ferryman. Now," he waved one hand at her. "Get out of here."

Sara nodded once in farewell and walked off, choosing a direction at random. The important thing was just to walk away from the river. Everything else would kinda take care of itself. She shut her eyes, one hand clutching her silver-spiral pendant so tightly she could feel the pointed end digging into her palm.

Homewards, homewards, homewards I go...

Getting to the River Styx required ritual. Getting back home needed something more. It needed want, an actual desire to go home.

And Sara opened her eyes to the Rainy River.

She didn't understand why her mother had chosen to walk straight back into danger, into a trap she herself had laid, into a situation she must have known would kill her. Sara had always known about the Lucians' short life-expectancy, but she had always chalked it up to the dangerous job they did. Now she was starting to realise that maybe the greatest danger wasn't the demons that possessed people, not the ones she could fight, but the ones that got under your skin in a completely different way. The ones that you created for yourself and then couldn't kill.

Maybe Sara did understand after all. Exorcisms were messy. Messy, brutal, hateful. And they left Sara with an ache inside, a sickness, a feeling of wrongness so acute she felt like a monster. But she couldn't stop. Couldn't take Charon up on his offer and cash her life in for a one-way trip on the River Styx.

Sara had fought her way into this life. Now she'd fight her way through it.

In her jacket pocket, her phone started to ring. Sara hurried to answer, pulling off the spell-charms as she did so.

"Lucian," she said, holding the phone in one hand and the assorted charms in the other.

"Hey, Sara. You okay?" said Dean's familiar voice.

And she didn't even have to fight alone.

Sara turned and flung the charms into the river. She wouldn't be needing those anytime sure, she was certain. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

And for the first time since her mother died, Sara wasn't lying through her teeth when she said that.

xxx

And that's the end of So Cold. Obviously, this isn't the end of the road for Sara's grief or for Dean and Sara's extended adventures, but this seemed to me like a suitable place to conclude this instalment. Dean and Sara will return shortly in False Reflections, in which an investigation becomes personal when Dean goes missing on a hunt.

Reviews, as always, are loved and treasured.

Oh, and what Sara says before jumping means (hopefully) Allow me, I beg, to enter, to speak to the ferryman in Ancient Greek. Any mistranslations can be attributed to the fact that Sara prefers Latin.