Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Eclipse

The call came in when the sun vanished. As throngs of curious skygazers gathered on the sidewalks wearing a variety of specialty glasses—or peering through tubes like sailors—Inspector Ingram and her partner Morais sped through mid-afternoon traffic to Bayview. All she knew about the incoming case was gunshots, car wheels peeling away, and one dead.

Ingram considered herself an amateur astronomer—was in the midst of charting Jupiter’s path across the night sky, in fact—but a potential murder victim trumped a solar eclipse.

Her dedication wasn’t shared by Morais, as he craned his neck out of the window. Ingram caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, grabbed a fistful of Morais’ jacket, and yanked him away from the window.

“You looking to fail your next eye exam?” she asked.

Morais responded with a shrug. Buzzing chatter on the radio filled the silence; in a city this large, there was always something nefarious going on. The sun was just beginning to emerge from behind the moon when the Inspectors turned the last corner. Neither of them bothered with checking the address; a squadron of police cars and an ambulance signalled their target, clear as day.

A pair of officers were speaking to two women, presumably the neighbors who had made the initial 911 call. Four more meticulously photographed a short stretch of yellowing grass alongside the outside of the house. Fewer officers were loitering inside, for which Ingram was grateful, not the least of which because the immediate room from the front door was in complete disarray.

The Inspectors slipped into a familiar routine. Morais sought out the senior officer on site while Ingram glanced around. Ingram pulled a small tablet out of her satchel and began with preliminary notes. The mess in the living room was unnatural. Compared to the neatness of the adjoining kitchen—clean but cluttered in a lived-in kind of way—the deep crack down the middle of the coffee table, overturned bookcase, and picture frames broken on the floor indicated a struggle or a fight.

Down the hallway, surrounded by kneeling analysts and a medical examiner, was the body. Morais rejoined her as she approached.

“Forced entry,” he murmured. “Vic’s been id’d as James Sasta. Lived here for two years. Neighbors say he seemed normal when they saw him this morning. They heard gunshots shortly after one and called it in.”

“Anything on the perp?” she asked, almost casually. This early in the investigation, there was little chance of identification.

Morais shook his head doubtfully. “There are large boot prints outside the bathroom window. Probably a man, could be a woman, might not even be our suspect at all.”

“This was a bold attack,” Ingram noted with a nod back to the living room. “It’s the middle of the day, the living room was trashed, and by the look of the blood splatter, it wasn’t a handgun.”

The mention of blood drew the Inspectors attention back to the body. Ingram could practically taste the warm, metallic scent of blood hanging in the air, originating from the seeping pool beneath the motionless man. It spread out, inch by inch, on the threadbare carpet, turning ecru to murky red. Ingram had long since lost the wonder of how much blood the human body actually held in her ten years of investigative experience, but this case tested her limit. The walls to the left side were splattered with red, dribbling down from a spot, just above Ingram’s eyeline, a few paces from the doorway. Congealing on the carpet beneath the splatter was a pile of pink and grey Ingram immediately identified as flesh and brain matter.

“As if we just wouldn’t see with the sun out?” Morais asked. The statement reminded Ingram of the cop shows from the early aughts she watched as a kid, where smart-mouthed officers always had a quip on the tips of their tongues, except Morais’ voice lacked any of the levity required to classify it as a joke. Morais limited his occupational humor to the coffee maker and occasionally, his deskmate’s purple prose reports.

The partners stepped gingerly down the hallway, mindful of a half dozen already taped off areas, designated with white, numbered cards, where officers had already noted evidence.

The analysts acknowledged them first. Ingram didn’t recognize the woman with red hair, but the man next to her was familiar. The intense heat of the afternoon pasted his choppy brown hair to his forehead, and his skin was glossy under a thin sheen of sweat, but only the occasional huff, not strong enough to lift the hair off of his forehead, gave any indication he suffered from the humid temperatures.

“Mark,” Ingram greeted, forgoing a handshake.

Mark nodded at them. He’d worked alongside the department for six years, more than enough time to build a cordial familiarity with the Inspectors. The woman must have been a new transfer.

Introductions dispensed in a matter of seconds and the group moved back into business.

“GSW to the abdomen, left shoulder, and face,” stated Cary, the medical examiner. “You’ll know more when we complete the autopsy.”

As the Inspectors watched, Mark, Cary, and Farrah placed the body into a black bag, zippered it shut, and then loaded the bag onto a stretcher for removal. Cary departed as well, already chattering into the recorder on his tablet.

The bloodstain on the carpet appeared even larger without the body covering most of it. There wasn’t much Ingram could glean from it so she focused on the wall James Sasta had been facing when he was shot. Close to the doorframe, concealed from view by the distracting presence of the blood splatter next to it, was a small hole in the panelling, and embedded within was the tell-tale gleam of a bullet.  Good. Later, they’d use the bullet to match to a gun, which would hopefully lead them to a suspect, if one hadn’t emerged already.

The area marked for evidence retrieval, Ingram moved on. As her eyes flitted over the panelling, searching for any irregularities, a wave of heat buckled her knees. For a moment, panic flared. This wasn’t the omnipresent hug of a warm, fall day (or the hot, fall day it actually was), and it wasn’t the same as came from heaters.

It was as if she were in the centre of a whirlwind of fire. Sweat manifested on the exposed portion of her skin, and in the cracks and crevices of her body. The moisture evaporated from her tongue, even though her mouth was closed, and she swore she smelled burning hair.

Then, the freak heat wave was gone, just as quickly as it arrived. The walls and carpeting fibers were unburnt, her hair whole in its braids, and the clean, white linen of her shirt was unmarred by soot. The only indication of the incident was the sudden dryness of the air, as if the humidity had been burnt away.

She couldn’t help but shoot a glance at her partner and Mark. They stared back, and she figured the confusion on their faces mirrored hers.

Morais’ eyes slid upwards, to the tiled ceiling, searching for a vent or register as a source, she presumed. Ingram did the same, on the floor.  They both came up empty.

No shouts echoed from the other rooms, or passed through the thin walls from the officers outside, so there hadn’t been a flash fire or an explosion.

“You felt that, right?” asked Morais, uncharacteristically uncertain.

It was an unnecessary question, in Ingram’s opinion. The sweat had to be as visible on her skin as it was on his, a thick, sleek coating more typical in a gym than a crime scene. Still, she nodded.

“Like the fires of hell,” she confirmed. “And we were in the middle.”

Mark cried out in alarm and propelled backwards in a single, quick motion. Ingram and Morais both brought their hands to their holsters instinctively, and relaxed when no enemy appeared.

“It flashed,” explained Mark in a raspy huff. “The blood flashed.”

“Flashed?”

“It turned white, just for a moment.”

After a momentary perusal of the blood pool—still red-- Ingram sought Morais’ gaze and found disbelief.

“It was probably a trick of the light,” suggested Morais, casually, despite the weirdness they’d all just felt.

Mark shook his head, too vigorously for the natural heat of the day. Ingram saw him sway slightly.     

“The blood turned white,” he insisted, his mouth staying open like he had more to say, but was overcome by a sudden bout of bashfulness.

Ingram natural instincts to dig took over. “And what?” she pressed.

Mark’s eyes slid down to the pool a few paces beyond his feet. “And I saw… fire made sentient,” he admitted slowly.

“Fire made sentient,” drawled Morais. Ingram doubted her partner intended on sounding so dismissive—even if that was how he felt—but the preceding minutes had apparently pushed him to his limits. In a unsubstantive assessment, Ingram guessed the mysterious heat wave had startled him and he was overcorrecting within the realm of certainty.

Mark’s face hardened immediately, in a manner Ingram recognized from many of her interrogations, the instinctual clamming up of someone who—for good or ill—knew further comment would be to his detriment.

He laughed, but the emotion was clearly forced. Mark’s eyes flitted to them in a sudden panic. “It must have been spots in my eye. From staring so long.” So please don’t report me to pysch, Ingram guessed, was how that sentence would have ended.

Morais accepted the feeble explanation, despite it clearly being a lie, because he diverted his attention back to the case. Ingram made a mental note of the incident, and did the same.

The Inspectors moved away from the hallway. They lost track of Mark within minutes, the two parties pulled away by different duties. Their report later made no mention of the flash of heat they both were beginning to believe was simply a hallucination, and no suggestion of health leave for Mark ever made its way to the Captain’s desk.

They didn’t see fire-come-alive staring back at them, crackling lips widening into a wicked smile, as it made its decision.

Chapter Text

The Plan

With the patience of toddlers two hours past their bedtime and hopped up on sugar, they waited the last few minutes. Pru passed the time ticking the seconds down with silent pats to her thigh, Wyatt eyes closed, sensing his surroundings, and Melinda by shifting her weight from right to left foot and back again. Junior watched their target with his eyes glazed over, and Chris, under the disapproving gaze of his mother, somehow typed out a message on his phone with the screen darkened to emit no light.

It wasn’t exactly the most encouraging sight—but also, not the worst, so the Charmed Ones let it slide. After all, this wasn’t the mothers nitpicking and henpecking over every motion. This was a tiny, measured leap of faith. They were there to assess their children’s demon-hunting skills in the wild, from start to finish. This was the next generation’s mission, the specificities decided by the kids, all structured around several key lessons from their moms.

Lesson Number One: Make a Plan.

Weighing lethality versus imperative, the target had been chosen, and the kids were responsible for reconnaissance. There had been slight bickering then, between two factions, over exactly how much they needed to know before vanquish time—exaggerations on both sides and more than healthy name calling, but to their credit the five of them did eventually come to an agreement. The kids were then to make a plan—which ended up too explosive for the Charmed Ones’ liking, so their mothers had to do a little revising.

Lesson Number Two: Follow the Plan.

Plans were meant to be followed and timelines were important, hence the waiting.

The minute ticked over, and Phoebe nodded for the kids to begin.

Junior disappeared into an orb, and reappeared in the middle of the lair looking properly bewildered. He glanced about in movements that appeared natural, and in a calculated display of his orbs, attracted every eye in the lair.

‘Every eye’ amounted to eight, with eight ears, four noses, and an ungodly number of teeth; two eyes, two ears, and one nose more than expected.

Their target was the woman in the middle, easily identified by her blue skin, pupil-less black eyes, and double rows of sharp, pointed teeth. According to the Book of Shadows, Zennika’s preferred method of killing was to swallow her prey in two bites, but if that proved too troublesome, she also had the ability to disguise herself and attack with the element of surprise.

The other three demons were her bodyguards. The Book hadn’t known anything specific, only the mention that she rarely was alone, but through the kids spying they’d gleaned the knowledge that the demons were fast, strong, and even worse in a group, owing to one ornery characteristic about their specific kind. Each demon had a different glyph carved into its forehead, corresponding to the energies it infused itself with. In contrast, there were three known vanquishing potions, based on nightshade, wormwood, and lupine essences, and woe be to the witch who used the wrong potion with the wrong glyph.

Hence, the elaborate plan.

Junior jerked in feigned surprise, and made a show of fumbling through his jacket pocket. A vial fell from the pocket and broke on the stone ground. “Oops,” shrugged Junior, insincerely, as a thick cloud of dark grey smoke filled the lair.

Junior was under attack immediately—or would have, if he hadn’t orbed unseen through the obscuring cloud. Instead, the demons converged on each other with high pitched squeals and low growls.

Chris, Pru, and Melinda moved in, ignoring Zennika entirely to focus on her bodyguards. Zennika was Wyatt’s responsibility, more to keep her occupied than anything. As Wyatt displayed some of his flashier powers, Chris, Pru, and Melinda, each equipped with a specific vanquishing potion targeted one of the bodyguards.

Except that two of the potions missed.

Pru squinted her eyes, trying at last minute to correct the course of her throwing arc. She almost succeeded. Melinda didn’t have that luxury. Once the ruby-coloured potion vial was out of her hands, it had only one path: right past the demon’s head, into Pru’s target. Swathes of ruddy smoke funnelled into the demon’s nostrils and his eyes gleamed in a golden light.

Chris’ vial hit his demon in the chest, slightly above the heart, and dissolved into oblivion. He smirked, oblivious that his sister and cousin had failed. An errant swipe from the demon behind him sent Chris to the ground, clutching at the open wound behind his left ear. Melinda ran forward to protect him, throwing herself at the demon in more of a preventative measure than an attack. This left Pru to face who had been Melinda’s target. Pru strode forward, testing her magic against the resistances of the demon.

Although they were supposed to be joined by at least one of Chris, Pru, or Melinda, Wyatt and Junior faced Zennika together. They stuck to the plan, almost to the letter, in timed motions slightly too consistent to appear natural. The men slipped into the defensive, using their orbs instead of their fists. Wyatt appeared a dozen steps in front of Zennika, the bright lights of his whitelighter power drawing the demon’s attention. When Zennika approached with a wide, murderous grin, Wyatt orbed out of her clutches.

This left Zennika facing the battlefield, where Pru, Chris, and Melinda fought against the bodyguards. Zennika had a clear shot at the distracted witches, so in orbed Junior, now holding a gleaming athame in his hands, forcing the demon’s attention towards him instead. Zennika took few steps and then lost her target into a flurry of blue lights. Junior and Wyatt traded off, drawing their target here to there, waiting for the signal to move into the next phase of the plan.

It didn’t come.

Lesson Number Three: Improvise.

There were still two bodyguards, and the three witches were struggling, almost to the point of the Charmed Ones stepping in (Phoebe providing the tie-breaking vote, though the displeasure on her face indicated she was not happy with the situation). Even worse, one of those demons had become ascended, imbued by Melinda’s errant potion—twice as strong, and nearly impossible to vanquish.

Chris and Pru crashed together in a heap at the foot of the Ascended Bodyguard, while Melinda ducked under the swipe of the other. She dropped low, gave an irritated sigh, and flicked her fingers. Her opponent froze, but the power had no effect on the Ascended, or Zennika beyond. Still it allowed her a moment to rise and block the advance of the Ascended to her brother and cousin. Melinda’s punch had little effect, and the three backed away to regroup.

“He’s tough,” said Melinda in a grumble.     

“He wouldn’t be if you had hit the right demon,” rebutted Chris.

Pru said nothing. Instead, she pulled a grey cloth satchel from her jacket pocket and dumped the three vials into her palm. As the Ascended approached, Pru tested the vial colours in the feeble light and silently tossed the murky blue potion at the still-frozen demon. After a flash of light, all that was left was the tail end of his scream of rage.

“Guess we did need the backup potions, huh?” Pru proclaimed to her companions, sounding both victorious and vindicated.

Spared a response by the nearing Ascended Bodyguard, Chris flung his hand out and managed to telekinetically send the demon backwards a foot and a half. Chris kept his hand out. The demon tested his impromptu prison in taunting movements, a push of the hand and then a scuff of the knee. Chris grunted. “Not going to be able to hold him for long.”

Melinda shifted her stance to the side and brought her fists to the ready while Pru clutched the remaining two potions.

“How do we vanquish him now?” asked Pru, to which Melinda shrugged and Chris grunted again. Then, in an instant, the demon vanished. The next second, the demon was back, and in two places.

Behind the demons, Wyatt and Junior stopped short and each looked sheepish. The situation practically explained itself: Zennika had slipped the trap and shifted into the shape of her last, remaining bodyguard.

Henry Junior and Wyatt orbed to their allies. They had barely corporealized when the two demons leapt into action, so the two men clamped their hands down on whoever’s shoulder was closest and orbed the entire group to the opposite end of the lair.

This time, when the demons advanced, Wyatt was ready. He sent a wave of heat in their direction, powerful enough to vanquish a horde of lesser demons, possibly even one mid-level demon if it was in the epicentre. These demons, however, avoided the vanquish. One dove to the side with a speed previously unseen and the other hunkered down as the wave passed, and only appeared slightly singed when the magic receded.

Wyatt tried again, with similar results. “That one is avoided me for a reason,” he guessed with a nod towards the demon on the left, who escaped the confines of the wave both times.

Pru stepped forward. “Let me help.”

With Pru holding the demon in place—barely—Wyatt resent the wave once again. This time, the magic found its mark, and the lair was one demon fewer.

The remaining demon shifted back, though the action wasn’t met with relief from the Halliwells. Zennika was just as dangerous as herself.

Though now, at least, they could fall back to the original plan.

In relative unison—Junior lagged behind slightly—those who could, transported into the ether, leaving only Melinda. Zennika darted for her prey, but Melinda met the demon halfway with a slide. They both fell to the ground.

Since she’d prepared for the movement, Melinda was able to roll out of Zennika’s reach before the demon found her footing. Nothing further could be done, however, as blue and pink lights descended from the heavens, surrounding Zennika, and reformed as witches brandishing athames. Three of the daggers missed, with Zennika avoiding the attempt by Pru and Chris, and Wyatt having been more concerned with not slicing one of his family members is such small quarters. Junior, however, got close enough to emerge with blood-stained athame.

Wyatt uncorked a potion vial with only a hint of colour. Chris held out a hand and his face scrunched together, concentrating only on maintaining his power to draw the blood off of Junior’s athame, maintain the miniscule droplets, and carry them through the air to drop into the potion in Wyatt’s hand. The potion immediately turned burgundy. Melinda had kicked up a flurry of dust to help disguise the movement, and as Wyatt recorked the bottle and let it fly towards Zennika, the five witches backed away.

Chris let out of whoop of triumph when the demon finally was vanquished. The witches turned towards the entrance to the lair, where their mothers waited.

The Charmed Ones attempted at stony faces, but faced with the grinning visages of their children, even Piper had to crack a small smile.

“That was… alright,” Paige declared with a drawling hum.

Phoebe’s smile turned sly. “You managed bare minimum.”

“And didn’t die,” concluded Piper, with a heavy stare at her middle child. In response, Wyatt reached with his right hand and healed the wound behind Chris’ ear.

In the middle, Junior made a huff of protest. “Come on, mom, we were awesome!”

Paige’s expression turned serious and she folded her arms. Beside her, Phoebe’s smile vanished and Piper frowned.

“You kids were good. I wouldn’t say awesome.”

Evidently the Charmed Ones had learned from their previous experience in this situation. None of them expressed surprise when their kids focused solely on Paige’s second sentence. As the protestations came in, the Charmed Ones rebutted with ease.

“We kicked Zennika’s ass!”

“Barely—with our plan.”

“Barely? Chris only bled a little. The rest of us weren’t even hurt.”

“Callousness towards your brother is not helping your cause.”

“I’m fine, and we had those demons handled the entire time.”

“You made amateur mistakes that could have gotten you killed.”

Chris groaned and flung his arms out wide. It didn’t help his case that a rickety table across the cavern crashed into the wall, copying his movements.

Rolling her eyes, Paige re-crossed her own arms. She sighed. “Why do you take everything we say as a challenge?”

“Because it is?” Pru rebutted.

Phoebe’s face softened, and her sisters relaxed their stances. “We don’t want you getting arrogant and careless—that’s how you get hurt. Still, we can admit when you’ve done well.”

“That was a good vanquish, and soon enough it will be awesome” said Piper sincerely, though she struggled momentarily on ‘awesome’.  “We’ll start again tomorrow, after your lesson.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yep. The whole process. If we can’t stop the new Source, we’ll make sure he doesn’t have any underlings.”

This time, the reaction was mixed, though mostly positive. Chris and Melinda brightened, Wyatt nodded, and Junior remained neutral. Of the five, only Pru looked perturbed, with pursed lips and clouded eyes. Still, she masked her fear quickly and eventually exhaled in a long, slow, breath. Piper sent her a reassuring smile.

After a brief glance at the watch on her wrist, Piper added, “It’s not too late. I can whip something up if anyone is hungry.”

“No more cookies!” Junior rebutted immediately, with a feigned look of horror. “I don’t want to see another one until, at least, next week.”

“Stalwart,” said Paige dryly.

Chris pulled out his phone once more. “Seven thirty,” he affirmed.

“That means I don’t have to cancel,” commented Pru with a quick sigh of relief. “Sorry, Aunt Piper that’s a no from me.”

“Me too,” added Wyatt. “I have a draft to commission.”

“I should probably shower,” mumbled Chris to himself, scrubbing at the blood stain behind his ear with the pads of his fingers.

“Me and NASA need to have a word,” Melinda said to her mother. Then, to Junior: “Mind orbing me there?”

He nodded solemnly. “I appreciate your sacrifice,” Junior responded, again with affected gravitas.

In a dazzling array of lights, all five disappeared, leaving only the Charmed Ones.

“Did either of you follow any of that?” asked Phoebe with a laugh.

Paige seemed to consider the question for a moment, pursing her lips and scrunching her forehead. Then, her face smoothed. “It all sounded legal to me, so good enough,” she concluded eventually.

“Well,” drawled Piper. “Am I making dinner for two or four?” she asked her sisters.

After an affirming look with Paige, Phoebe suggested, “How about six?”

Piper nodded once and rotated her right hand in an ushering motion. “Six it is. Come on, get us out of here, Paige.”

With joined hands, the Charmed Ones orbed from the lair, leaving only four scorched streaks on the floor and a trailing wisp of smoke in the air.

Chapter Text

Melinda I

Melinda had cornered her prey. At least, that’s what she told herself, standing just beyond the view from the café’s windows. Cornered her prey sounded better than asked a co-worker to look at the schedule, and it allowed her some measure of dignity—dignity which would soon be in short supply. She didn’t have much dignity to begin with, what with throwing it around like confetti whenever a mildly uncomfortable experience reared its head, so what miniscule scraps still existed on the fringes of her mind needed to be preserved. There was, after all, more witch training with her mother the next morning, a fumbling apology to her cousin after that, and a make-up date with a whitelighter-to-be to get through next week. Running out of dignity part way through would leave her with what? Self-reflection? That was a disaster better left avoided.

So, she had cornered her prey. He wasn’t visible from her vantage point—evidently no one had dumped cappuccino on snippy lady’s boots—but she knew he was inside. A year and a half of experience had taught her that he was bound to the building with the invisible chain called Management. Whether it was forms to fill, calls from suppliers, complaints from those above and below the chain of command, or customers with impossible orders, no doubt he was working on four different tasks at the moment, and she was about to make it five.

“Alright, loser, let’s do this,” Melinda muttered to herself, acting as her own motivator. She squared her shoulders and hefted open the glass door before she could come up with a decent excuse.

The wafting aroma of coffee, yeast, and barley was a thick wall of familiarity, if not particularly pleasant combined together. So too was the chatter spread across tables, coupled with the hum and scrapes of the kitchen in the background.

Melinda bypassed the queue and slipped behind the counter.

“Hey, Linh,” she greeted quickly and nodded towards the hallway leading away from the storefront. “Eric in his office?”

Linh nodded once while typing in her customer’s order. “He was supposed to be helping me tonight, but…” she trailed off, indicating the line of half a dozen waiting patrons whose faces alternated between barely suppressed impatience and complete blankness.

Moving away from the counter, Melinda flashed Linh a sheepish smile. “Well, I’m about to add to your problem. Hopefully.”

“Honestly, if it means I don’t have to work with the new kid anymore, I’d say it’s worth it,” came Linh’s dry response.

Linh turned back to the queue, so Melinda let her work.

The noise of the storefront briefly merged with the clamour of the kitchen as she moved away, and then died to a soft muffle as she neared Eric’s office. His door was open, as was the norm, and she could hear a quiet, one-sided conversation happening beyond.

Summoning one last burst of confidence, Melinda rapped her knuckles on the door and moved into view as Eric verbally bade her to enter.

If he felt any irritation at her presence, he hid it well. Melinda chose to take this as a good omen and properly entered the small office. While Eric brought his prior conversation to a close, Melinda amused herself by taking a quick glance around. It wasn’t a particularly interesting room—a few motivational posters, half a dozen framed certificates, stacks of papers (corners aligned), and a large poster board with all the employee’s names, a few scattered notes, and stickers in the shape of doughnuts. Her name was still there, in between Dani and Lee, with two stickers and many more notes. She needed to make sure her name didn’t come down.

“Melinda” Eric greeted, finally ending his call. He paused, while there wasn’t much change in his features, she caught the movement of his brows drawing together. “Your final cheque has already cleared.”

She couldn’t help but shuffle in her place. “I’m actually hoping that it wasn’t my last paycheque.”

This time, the confusion that flashed across his face was clear. After a longer pause, he hesitantly asked, “Are you asking for a reference?”

“Yes,” Melinda responded immediately, instantly unsure of her own reasoning. Then, she scrambled to get the conversation back to where she wanted it. “And you can send it to yourself.”

Yes, she knew she was an idiot.

She guessed Eric recognized it too, but was too polite to mention it immediately. “I don’t understand,” he responded after another long moment.

“I want my job back.”

Another pause, one seemingly without end. Melinda found herself shuffling again, and had to bite down further comments. If there was one thing she’d learned in the past three weeks of job hunting, it was the less she said, the better.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” declared Eric eventually.

“Really?” Melinda shot back, shocked enough to lose all verbal filter in an instant. She certainly hadn’t expected to crawl back to Hava Java, and she ought to know herself the best.

Eric adopted a lofty tone, just subdued enough not to completely raise Melinda’s hackles, but still enough that she had to stop her feet from taking the rest of her body promptly out the door. “You wouldn’t be the first,” he said.

“But I quit,” she found herself saying.  

Eric nodded once. “And now you’re back.”

Every part of her plan, such as it was, indicated now was the time for her to grovel. Play up her reputation and admit she made an impulsive, stupid mistake. That, once again, her emotions had run wild and Melinda just didn’t have the strength of character to hold onto rationality.

 The words travelled up and then stuck in her throat, burrowing into the flesh like a clamp into a rockface.

She always did have an unhealthy love of free climbing.

Eric knew it too. He stared at her, the blatant expectation in his eyes pinning the lump in her throat just underneath her jaw.

She forced the lump down, even as the part of her that liked paying her share of the rent on time protested in colourful language it learned from the part of her that lived in her bank account’s overdraw. Stubbornly, she felt her jaw jut forward, and crossed and uncrossed her arms in unnatural succession. Her eyes flickered over to the Employee list on the wall and found her name. Two donut stickers and squares of citations too numerous to count in the second-long perusal. It wasn’t exactly an encouraging sight. The ratio fell heavily out of her favour. She’d have to be out of her mind to ask for her job back with that kind of performance behind her.

Oddly, the thought perked Melinda up instead. She brushed discouragement behind her and forcibly retracted her jaw and stuck her hands in her pocket to force her body into a less aggressive stance.

She tried a smile, but suspected it came out more of a grimace, and gave it up after a long, awkward moment.

“Look,” she said bluntly, finally offering a response. “I don’t make a fantastic first impression.”

Eric hummed in response, way too good, in Melinda’s opinion, at acting professional.

“One man I interviewed with said he’d be happy to pay the legal fees to have just didn’t like her on my rejected application,” Melinda supplied. “And I don’t know if you know this, but the only reason I got this job in the first place was because the manager before you was dating Carma.”

“I was aware of that, actually,” Eric said quietly.

Melinda continued on, dauntless. “It takes a good, solid three weeks before my charms start to show, you know, and tip the scales in the tolerable direction.”

Under the guise of a nose scratch, Eric hid a small smile, so Melinda bulldozed ahead.

“But,” she added, raising one finger in emphasis. “I did get hired. And I could do it again, somewhere else if needed. It just so happens that my family has had a bit of a crisis, and the time on the job hunt could be better spent hunting dem-something completely different. So, I’m asking for my job back.”

Despite her near slipup, Melinda felt a wave of satisfaction. She’d turned that conversation around into something almost positive and relevant.

Eric’s voice betrayed none of his thought processes. “I’ve already hired someone to fill your position,” he said finally.

 Melinda scoffed and supressed an eye roll. “New Kid sucks,” she declared certainly, to which Eric raised an eyebrow. At his unspoken question, she supplied her reasoning. “This is supposed to be my shift, and yet you’re here instead. The New Kid sucks. They always suck. They don’t know where anything is, need to be controlled like a puppet, call in sick on their third day, and lack any kind of sense at all.”

“And I,” she contrasted slyly. “Know what to do and where things are.” To prove her point, she adopted the blank face of a new hire with an accompanying thumbs down, then dropped the look, pointed at her smiling face with one hand and flipped the other thumb around.

Eric sighed, but Melinda knew by the half-hearted tone that she was on the right track.

“So… a couple months down the road when New Kid has unexpectedly quit or had to be fired, you’re going to be really grateful your Number Six employee Melinda has been there to pick up the slack.”

A couple of seconds of silence became twenty, and then a full minute, as Eric leaned back into his chair. Melinda held her stance with an iron will, focused entirely on her goal, a mere couple of feet above of her. Doubt and indecision were left on the ground, and she wouldn’t stop over a trifle of feelings.

“Trevor will keep his shifts, but you can take nights.”

“Terrible, but I’ll do it,” she responded immediately.

“I expect you to take over cleaning detail as well.”

She gave him a slight shrug. “I figured.”

Eric pulled out his last card. “And you’ll retake orientation.”

That statement pulled the brakes on her inner celebration. Melinda groaned, audibly, to Eric’s displeasure. “Why?” she drawled, extending the word far past its natural rhythm.

Eric shot her a look that ended her whine. “Because there are a series of segments I believe you need reminding of, namely customer relations and how to handle complaints in a way that doesn’t set the company in legal hot water.”

“Eric, the cappuccino wasn’t even hot! She’d been complaining for too long by then. And her boots covered everything anyway.”

As his response, and in rapid succession, Eric rattled off scenarios. “We would have difficulty proving the liquid was at a temperature that couldn’t cause burns, we definitely couldn’t claim it was an accident, and those boots probably cost more than the cappuccino maker. It was a legal disaster and we got lucky she only wanted to complain about you for thirty minutes.”

Melinda tried to argue that it was an accident, but couldn’t come up with an explanation other than ‘my magical powers went haywire’ and eventually swallowed her protestations, more than a little disgruntled to take the blame for something that hadn’t really been her fault totally.

‘Rent’ she reminded herself quickly, and agreed to redo orientation.

“If you do these things, and pass a period of probation, I will reinstate you at your previous wage.”

Melinda’s eyebrows shot up. No where in her wildest expectations had she expected to come out above minimum wage.

“Thanks,” she said, slightly mollified.

Never had she imagined Eric, Mr. The (Dead) Event Ends at 9 PM and Not a Minute Sooner, Close Enough is Not Enough, We Are Not Leaving the Staff Room Until Someone Confesses, could be nice to someone in need, even though the recipient (probably) didn’t deserve it.

Briefly, Melinda considered taking a shift for him the next time Hava Java Talent Extravaganza rolled around. She even entertained the gallant notion of not commenting, as per her standard, that the name he chose for that particular event was worse than the ‘talent’ which to the staff were forced to give three curt claps. She might even, horror upon horror, retrieve from above the ceiling tile (three across and six up when standing in the kitchen corner) the remote for the sound box so Eric could torture them all with eighteen hours of holiday music six months before and after the holiday season.

Not wanting to do the last part in particular, she went over the conversation in her head while Eric pulled out a stack of papers for her to sign, and remembered that she’d be in the Out Here Shift (as in see you, I’m outta here) for the foreseeable future; annoying slow and stoned patrons, midnight, post-disaster date couples lacking the decency not to fight in the middle of the café, and stupor-inducing inactivity broken only by the desperate three a.m. decision to clean out the steamer and all.

“You’ll start on Wednesday,” Eric said while Melinda stewed. “I’ll have the rest of the month’s schedule by then. None of your personal information has changed?”

“I’m down a roommate,” she commented impulsively, slipping back into a familiar irreverence.

Eric didn’t even blink out of order. “The accountant doesn’t care unless your address has changed. What about your certifications?”

“They’re… in existence,” she answered, unwilling to, in her tenuous new status, commit to knowing the exact location of her certificates. She wasn’t even sure if they were still in the apartment or if they’d been in the bag of uniforms she’d gleefully used as athame target practise. Which, Melinda remembered with a light grimace, meant she’d need to buy more of the stupid shirts.

“Are they up to date?” Eric asked with a sigh.

“Probably?” she guessed.

He didn’t repeat a sigh, but she did catch a brief flash of the white of his eyes as he bent his head and made a note. “I’ll pull up your file and see if anything needs to be changed. I’m guessing you’ll need copies?”

She nodded without shame. “Probably.”

Eric stood and passed her a new set of keys. This set had a butterfly on the keychain that she almost mistook for a set of angel wings. “Come in an hour early on Wednesday so we can get the registration and paperwork out of the way.” He held out his hand. Melinda took it immediately, giving him a firm handshake her dad would be proud of, and true to form, Eric did not comment on the soot and dust clogging her cuticles or the bruises beginning to swallow her knuckles.

Linh offered a high five when Melinda passed back through the kitchen. Now that Melinda was once again employed at Hava Java, the atmosphere welcomed her back with open, barley-scented arms. She left, happy at least to have the unpleasant task over with, and eager to face the next challenge.

Chapter Text

Chris I

Christopher Halliwell wasn’t about to admit it, but he couldn’t remember his date’s name. Even worse, he couldn’t pin down any concrete details about her at all, and he was rapidly running out of generic small talk that wouldn’t get a drink thrown in his face. He’d even taken himself down several pegs by talking about the weather, and, proving that his date was a far better person than he currently treated her, she’d agreed, yes, that it was hot for this time of year, and yes, the humidity was nigh unbearable, before smoothly transitioning into a subject that didn’t make Chris want to bash his head against the nearest wall (if, you know, Chris wasn’t an utter asshole who couldn’t remember his date’s name).

She was pretty and blonde, with a round face, bright, brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Which was fine, but he had to admit to himself that he’d spent the lead-up to the date picturing a redhead.

Right—the redhead was Julianne. Julianne worked across from Three’s and was his date for next week, which didn’t exactly help him now, sitting across from Not Julianne at a bar that served all its food on slabs of wood.

While his date was preoccupied with the waiter, Chris frantically went over the past week in his head. Was she the one from the market disparaging the quality of the dill? No, that was Marcia the nutritionist and she was last week. The woman from the club had declined, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t met anyone new at the din Grady frequented.

The waiter turned to him and he ordered on auto-pilot. As the waiter departed, Chris’ date turned to face him properly with a warm smile. Shame roiled his stomach. The woman was friendly, eager, and by all accounts, the perfect date, and Chris couldn’t even remember her name.

This was, he realized, one of those male behaviors the women in his family complained about.

“Look, I’m sorry-“ he began in the same moment she started her own statement.

“Did your brother like the sweater?”

The way their conjoined words lined up, he missed the first part, but caught the tail end when his own apology trailed off and his brain filled in the missing context. Then, it clicked.

Lacie. Her name was Lacie Murrow. She bought books from thrifts stores to bring to her patients while Chris was a dumbass who bought the most obnoxiously accountant-y joke sweater for his brother and asked the good-hearted woman in the fiction aisle if she thought he could iron on extra elbow pads.

Disaster averted.

“I’m pretty sure he wore it to work,” Chris said, laughing freely, perhaps partly in relief. “The joke flew over his head. I think he’s lost to sweater vests for good.”

Lacie chuckled through a smile. “Well, I hate to admit it, but my patient picked your book over mine.”

“I told you.”

With a quick shake of her head, mitigated by the wide smile on her lips, Lacie grumbled, “What kind of moral myopia do we live in that a self-confessed “non-reader” can better pick out a book than a literature buff?”

“The cover was crap.”

“But it was a good story!” Lacie shot back, and they fell into a repeat of their thrift store debate. “And you just pulled a random book off the shelf, looked at the cover for three seconds, and somehow knew that it’d be the one he’d choose?”

Chris shot her a sly grin. “It’s not just about a good cover. The title matters. Hence, “Rocket Submarine” over “The Lightest of Dark”. Everything else doesn’t really matter.”

“Everything else, like the actual contents?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

They laughed together. Chris relaxed into the cozy atmosphere, no longer dragging half his consciousness through his every interaction over the last few days, and he soon found himself having fun. They waded through the First Date Formalities. He gave a primer on his family and learned that she had parents that lived near Berkeley and a brother that was closer. She didn’t see much of her cousins but didn’t seem weirded out that his own were practically siblings.

Then came the fishing questions, the ones with just enough hook to send up red flags. The way Lacie spoke of her childhood and teenage years gave the impression of a non-magical life, but she also didn’t go into a tirade when he casually dropped ghosts into the conversation. She treated the waiter with respect, didn’t make mention of any ex-partners, and gave no overt indications that he was better to walk away. In turn, Chris assumed he passed muster as, an hour into the date, she seemed just as attentive as the beginning.

Conversation returned, as it tended to among adults, to their work.

“Naturally, the prevailing opinion is that I should stay at Saint Francis Memorial, but I’ve been thinking, once I get my associate nurse’s degree, I’m considering being a Travel Nurse.”

Chris offered her a sheepish smile. “I’ll admit to not knowing too well the differences between types of nurses, but I’m guessing that one calls for travel?”

“Obviously.” Lacie’s demeanour brightened as she spoke, and it didn’t take an empath to see that she was clearly passionate about the endeavor. “Travel nurses are always in demand, I guess because of the transient nature of the job? I know it wouldn’t be the best opportunity for sight-seeing but I have always wanted to see more of the world, and it’s not like I have some pressing need to stay in the city.”

She glanced at him and blushed. “It’s a few years off, anyway,” she added, obviously making an effort to mute slightly her enthusiasm. “I don’t even start the program until next fall.”

“Sounds like a good time to me,” Chris responded. He didn’t fully understand her feelings—he’d never felt a particular kinship with any career in particular, and preferred to take each opportunity as it came—but he fully sympathized with not wanting the ‘safe’ path just because it was safe.

(And, yes, Chris did realize that his rhetoric was a lot easier to stomach when one had a family business willing and able to sign his paycheque and a grandfather’s guest bedroom he could return to when certain lodging in a part of town way outside his paygrade with an ex-girlfriend suddenly wasn’t available on account of that pesky ‘ex’ part.)

Not subject to Chris’ sudden internal downturn into the whirling storm that was Bia—her—Lacie could only react to what he’d actually said. Joy brightened her eyes. “I think so too,” she said, shyly, and Chris wondered if he’d been the first person to tell her to go for it.

He forced himself to return to here and now, the moments that actually mattered, to a woman who was here and not wrapped up in past in complications that’d sooner choke them both than unravel. Here and now.

“Alright,” Lacie declared suddenly, with a burst of energy and force behind her voice, “I’d be a terrible nurse if I didn’t at least make you but ice on that bruise.”

Chris’ hand, snaking out for his beer, froze. “Bruise?” he asked back, trying to play it cool, as the saying went.

She pointed towards his chest and he automatically looked down but couldn’t see just where she was pointing. He felt along his collarbone with his left hand instead and winced when his fingers pressed into a sensitive patch where his collarbone and neck met.

“I was pretty sure it wasn’t a hickey,” Lacie laughed. “You didn’t seem the type.”

“Thanks,” he said, automatically. His mind was gone again, wondering where the bruise came from (Wyatt must have missed that spot when he healed Chris after the fight with Zennika), and how he was going to explain it without coming across as a hot-headed loser who gets into random fights hours before a date.

Luckily, Lacie did the work for him. “Are you a bouncer or something?”

“Yeah,” he lied, taking the low-hanging fruit right in front of his face, “It’s a part-time gig.” Then, he noticed the redness on his knuckles and allowed a flash of sheepishness to show on his face. “Sorry. I didn’t realize anything would show or I would have explained earlier.”

She waved off his apology with ease, accepting a logical lie over the fantastical alternative. “I happen to like the strong and silent type.”

Chris puffed his chest out without truly realizing what he was doing, emboldened by her compliment. “I can’t promise much on the silent front,” he replied, trailing off.

“Mmhmm, I think I can let that one go.”

The date was going exceedingly well, despite less-than-stellar performance from him. He didn’t need his Aunt Phoebe to tell him that showing up bruised without explanation and spending the first half hour distracted wasn’t an ideal romantic match. The fact that she was still in front of him was a testament to either the pub’s good food or the fact that she actually liked him. The least he could do was pay for dinner and maybe they could have a couple of fun weeks together. It was, remarkably, looking to be a perfect set up.

Then, her attention wavered. The conversation halted when their meals arrived and he caught her glancing, none too stealthily, at her purse. Her talking points came up short, interrupted by an errant buzz, and Chris could see the blatant curiosity in her eyes, even if it was paired with an annoyed tilt to her lips.

“Sorry,” she said eventually, and practically dove into her purse. “I’ll just turn it off.”

Lacie tilted the phone into her view while her fingers initiated a shutdown. Then, in an instant, her fingers pulled off the button and her eyes flashed up to meet his.

“My sister-in-law,” Lacie explained quickly, the annoyance becoming concern. “She says it’s an emergency.”

Chris could hardly keep her away from a family emergency, so he occupied himself with his meal while she darted out of her chair, phone already dialing, and off into a private corner.

He snuck glances at her as the minutes passed, wondering if there was an emergency, or if she was just a good actor and this was the classic bail-out call from her friends. Maybe she hadn’t been able to overlook his behaviour after all. If so, he couldn’t exactly blame her.

If only he had the power of empathy, and if only the consequences of personal gain far, far outweighed the momentary benefits.

Concern pulled at her features when Lacie returned to the table. “Something is wrong with my brother,” she clarified in one short breath. Chris was pretty sure it wasn’t an act. “I have to go.”

Chris grabbed her hand as it pulled out her wallet. “I understand,” he said sincerely, staring into her eyes in an attempt to assuage any guilt she might feel. “And don’t worry about it,” he added with a nod to her wallet. “My treat. I hope your brother is alright.”

Gratitude flooded across her face. “I’ll text you and we can reschedule?”

He nodded, and she disappeared before he could take a full swig of his beer.

The waiter gave him a sympathetic smile as he passed by. Chris ordered another beer and then thought better of it. The night now unsalvageable, Chris paid the bill, and departed quickly, entirely certain this wouldn’t be a night he’d share with his siblings any time soon.

Chapter Text

the entity in lacie's freezer

Lacie couldn’t help but run scenarios in her head: Mark collapsed, bloody foam bubbling out of his lips after exposure to a noxious chemical; Mark beyond soothing, his mind pushed beyond its limits after years of horrors on the job; Mark, terrified after a vengeful perp followed him home. Somehow, every scenario involved his work. It had been almost a decade since they’d shared a house, but in the back of Lacie’s mind, she still expected every knock on her door to be officers from his precinct, to tell her her brother was dead.

She wished Olivia had said more, but Lacie knew no matter what she heard, she was going to worry the entire drive to her brother and sister-in-law’s Bayview apartment. Still “Will you come over Mark’s not well” wasn’t much to go on, and even when she managed to push the what-ifs to the back of her mind, inevitably her thoughts would drift to the traffic, to Olivia’s voice, and then to Mark.

Her car squealed as Lacie took the final corner too tightly, but with a firm hand she regained control of the vehicle, turned again into the building’s parking lot and crookedly parked in the nearest open space. Olivia was waiting at the buzzer, and Lacie raced up two flights of stairs to a familiar apartment door and let herself inside.

“It’s not an emergency,” Olivia blurted out immediately. “I’m sorry—I made you worry.”

Sweet relief coursed through Lacie’s body, and she exhaled a great, laughing gasp. That relief, however, wasn’t mirrored on Olivia’s face. Even more concerning, Lacie’s exhale bloomed in front of her eyes in a wispy spiral of grey. Confusion clouded Lacie’s mind and she struggled to pick a question to ask first.

“Come on,” Olivia said, with a nod behind her. Her arms were crossed, from the cold or from concern, Lacie couldn’t tell, and as she turned around, Olivia continued, “Mark’s in the bedroom.”

She continued speaking as Lacie followed. “When I got home from work, he had made an ice bath. I don’t know how long he’d been in it.”

“An ice bath?”

“He told me he ‘needed to put the fire out’.”

“Is he delirious?” Lacie meant to ask, but Olivia had already turned into her and Mark’s bedroom, and stopped short.

The sound Olivia emitted was almost a growl. “I just left him,” she said, swinging around abruptly and brushing past Lacie.

With the area clear, Lacie was able to peer into the bedroom, where the rumpled bed was empty. The two women took opposite sides of the hallways, throwing opening doors and calling Mark’s name.

“Is that why it’s freezing in here?” Lacie asked as she scanned the bathroom. Plastic bags overfilled the small garbage can and a thin layer of ice cubes remained in the tub.

A door opposite the bathroom clattered against the adjoining wall. “He blasted the AC when I wouldn’t let him back in the tub.”

Lacie tried the kitchen and immediately called out her brother’s name in surprise. Bags and boxes of frozen food lay carelessly strewn at the foot of a medium freezer, within which was Mark. His body would have been squeezed to fit inside the space, so only his head swivelled to her direction.

“What are you doing?” she asked instinctively, darting towards the freezer as she asked.

“It’s hot,” muttered Mark.

Lacie barely heard him as she reached inside, grabbed one of Mark’s biceps with both hands, and heaved upwards. Mark’s weight, however, was greater than her strength and he remained firmly in the icy confines of the freezer.

Footsteps sounded Olivia’s arrival, and a second pair of hands joined Lacie’s on Mark’s arm. Together, they heaved with enough force to compel Mark to rise. He stood awkwardly, icy snow brushing off on his jeans. Mark clambered out of the freezer in two disjointed steps, and stood before the anxious pair, his face placid against their worry and exasperation.

Olivia dragged her husband back to the bedroom, with Lacie following close behind, where Mark was urged back into bed. The powdery residue of the freezer had already melted on his skin, coating him in a thin layer of moisture. Glancing at his forehead, Lacie felt herself frown. Thick tufts of his brown hair clung to his forehead, visibly damp, and as she took in his situation, a new bead of water formed at his hairline, slid down his temple, past his ear, and dripped from his jaw. The liquid on his skin couldn’t be all ice. It had to be sweat.

She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, expecting to feel the clammy skin typical of the feverish. Instead, her hand reflexively flinched from the dry, searing heat.

Her confusion deepened when she took in the deep sweat marks around his neck and armpits, so deep, they covered nearly his entire shirt.

“Do you have a thermometer?” she asked, sending a glance to Olivia while she gingerly checked other areas of Mark’s body for an abnormal temperature.

Olivia’s body moved from Lacie’s vision wordlessly and returned quickly. Lacie took the proffered thermometer and placed it in Mark’s mouth when he failed to do it himself.

With his feverish demeanour and the copious sweat coating his body, Lacie expected the thermometer to read over 100.

“How bad is it?” Olivia asked, mistaking Lacie’s silence.

Lacie muttered, “It’s broken.”

“What?”

With the thermometer in hand, Lacie vacated the bedroom, heading back to the kitchen, intent on proving to her sister-in-law, that the thermometer had malfunctioned, but the short time in the fridge reflected accurately on the decreased number. She returned to the bedroom, dumbfounded.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “His temperature is normal.”

“How is that possible?”

She shook her head. “He needs to go to the hospital.”

“No!” Mark shouted.

Olivia grimaced. “I wanted to take him an hour ago. Mark didn’t want to—he said we couldn’t afford the cost, and when I tried to phone for an ambulance, he--”

“I don’t need a hospital. I just need the fire to stop!”

Olivia reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her phone, showing instead of continuing her sentence. The screen was cracked straight down the middle, splinted from the centre, and the lower right corner crumbled like a hammer had hit it.

“You broke her phone?” Lacie hissed accusingly at her brother, sending him a glare for good measure.

“In his hand,” Olivia confirmed. “Like it was nothing.”

The two women stared at each other for a moment. The slight fear in Olivia’s eyes pulled Lacie in two directions. She wanted to offer comfort, possibly even try to justify her brother’s actions on the basis of a fever, but she didn’t know what possibly to say.

“I managed one call to you before it died.”

Lacie turned back to Mark. “You’re not well,” she told him firmly. “What kind of a sister would I be if I left you like this? You need to go to the hospital.”

Mark shook his head, sending water droplets flying into the cloth headboard.

“I don’t think he’s sick,” Lacie theorized with a sigh. “He could have eaten something, or taken something, but this is beyond my expertise.”

Olivia leaned close to Lacie and whispered, “Can you help me get him in the car?”

Mark sat up suddenly. “No.”

“Mark…”

He turned to Lacie. “I feel fine… sister.”

She rolled her eyes and thrust her hand forward again to feel his forehead. “Then why does your skin feel like it’s on f…”

She trailed off, and Mark tilted his head to grin at her. It looked odd on his face.

“On…?” he drawled, still grinning.

“Was this a trick?” Lacie shrieked angrily. The torrent of worry morphed into ire. When Olivia questioned her, Lacie couldn’t contain her anger. “I don’t know how he did it, but he’s fine now. His skin feels normal.” She might have accused Olivia of complicity in the plot, but such an event would be unusual by itself. Mark perhaps could imbibe in sibling mischief, but Lacie could not believe Olivia would advocate for such a cruel act.

Olivia tested her husband for herself, and came away with a deep frown. Then, she pulled Lacie closer to the doorway, away from Mark’s sly grin and peering eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening, but this isn’t a trick, Lace. Mark wouldn’t do this,” Olivia whispered fervently.

Lacie glanced back at her brother, who was now examining his fingers with keen interest. The cascade of emotions from the past ten minutes settled as she took deeper breaths and rationality returned to her frantic mind. She had to agree with Olivia: the ice bath, the searing forehead that would be impossible (and incredibly dangerous) to fabricate, the ceaseless sweat, the freakish strength, and the delirium, all of it was cause for concern.

“I’ll stay the night and do what I can,” she told Olivia. “And if he isn’t better by morning, I’ll drag him to the hospital if I have to.”

Chapter Text

Remedial Witch Lessons, Pt 2

No training dummies bared the indignity of a second life as a body cushion this time early Saturday morning. The nine children of the Charmed Ones arrived twenty (Wyatt, Pru), fifteen (Portia, Grace, and Peyton), ten (Henry, Melinda), and three (Astrid, Chris) minutes early, coffee in hand and no pajama bottom in sight. A collective conversation took place in slightly weary voices, with branches sprouting up suddenly between participants.

“Shark demons and hypnosis,” drawled Astrid, “Sounds like fun.”

“Suggestion, not hypnosis,” Pru corrected immediately, to which Astrid gave her an unaffected shrug.

“Whatever—I’d like to see a demon try to tell me what to do. I would have roasted his ass just as fast,” boasted the younger twin, summoning a tendril of flame in her hand. Pru squinted her eyes and the flame extinguished, leaving only a trailing wisp of smoke.

Across the room, Wyatt adopted a paternal frown. “And when is this due?”

Beside him, Portia spared him only a brief glance before returning her attention to her tablet. “First period, so… an hour and ten minutes.”

Wyatt’s frown deepened, though his cousin missed it entirely. He opened his mouth, paused, then shut it, as if waging an internal war. Eventually, the nice side won out. “Well, what are you stuck on?”

“Stoichiometric equations and balancing chemical reactions,” mumbled Portia.

“Oh, that’s easy,” declared Wyatt immediately. Then he trailed off, and the sudden blankness of his face became creased eyebrows, a far-off look to his eyes, and pursed lips. “You… add the… sides and there are… I don’t remember how to do that at all. Wow, it’s been a decade.”

Without preamble, Grace plopped beside Portia and tilted the screen so she could read the question. They bent their heads together over the tablet while Wyatt shuffled his feet awkwardly, suddenly feeling old and useless.

“You’re not going to help your sister?” Chris asked Peyton, with a nod towards the trio, currently scouring a periodic table on Grace’s phone.

Peyton shrugged. “Grace has it handled. Besides, I took Bio, and promptly forgot Bio as soon I put on that cap.”

Then, she levelled him with a sardonic gaze. “Why?” she asked flatly. “Are you going to call me out?”

There wasn’t much he could say to that.

With a huff, Melinda flung her hands out, “Fine,” she grumbled to a snickering Astrid, “My aim sucked.”

Astrid cocked her head. “I can give you some pointers if you teach me how to break a demon’s nose.”

“Deal.”

“I don’t know,” Henry said, shrugging to Pru, “there’s just been distance between us lately. I know her job calls for travel, I just don’t know…”

“If it’s worth it?” Pru answered for him, and offered a sympathetic smile when Henry couldn’t deny it.

As the last seconds ticked over to seven o’clock, the Charmed Ones orbed in an identical display as before, table, props, and all.

“Better,” Piper said, surveying the kids, and giving them a brief nod of approval.

“How’s everyone feeling?” asked Phoebe, and received a mildly positive response.

Getting right to the point, Paige stood a little straighter. “Astrid, Portia, and Wyatt,” she called, “you’re with Piper. “Peyton, Grace, and Chris are with Phoebe, and the rest of you are mine.”

The groups separated.

Phoebe waved a thin manila folder in front of her trio in long, languid movements. As their attention drifted from their cousins and siblings across the room to the middle Charmed One, Phoebe pulled out three scraps of paper, clearly torn from a yellow, journalist pad from the Bay Mirror.

“Uncle Leo requested we not summon a portal into an unknown shadow dimension if we couldn’t help it, so I decided to approach this lesson a little differently,” Phoebe began, pausing for the sniggers (and light-hearted jeers towards Wyatt, who hid his blush behind a large jar of pigs’ ears) that she knew would, and did, come. As the comments died down, she passed each of her students a paper.

“The spells I’ve given you have common, beginner’s mistakes that would backfire almost immediately. I want each of you to go through your spell and figure out where you think the spell would go wrong, and then, reword the spell to achieve a better outcome. Understand?”

Receiving no refusals, Phoebe let them get to work. Twice, she caught herself hovering over one of their shoulders, her mouth open to guide them along, and had to stop the words in her throat, clamp her jaw shut, and return to her spot in the middle of the chairs. There was a reason, after all, it was Paige and Leo who taught and not her.

She busied herself watching her sisters and their groups, though even she had to admit, it wasn’t exactly a fascinating display. Piper, obviously passionate about herbs, lectured on the properties on a sprig of some green plant Phoebe couldn’t identify from a distance, and Paige had her charges practising in small, unobtrusive movements. Phoebe suspected that if the Charmed Ones’ lectures were to be added to the Magic School curriculum, they would be widely panned. Still, she knew these lessons were important, and frankly, a long time due.

The timer on her phone dinged and Phoebe returned to her lecturn.

“Well?” she asked. “What did you come up with? Oldest first.”

Chris, rather than appear attentive, slouched down in his chair with an air of rebellion. “Forces gather, yet unchained—”

Phoebe cut him off with a slash of her hands and a sharp yelp. “Don’t read the spells out loud!”

Chris waited a moment and then said flatly, as if it were obvious, “Then how will Grace and Peyt know what I did?”

The warm lights of the room hid the small blush that crept up Phoebe’s neck. “Well, pass your papers,” she suggested instead, with a dramatic flourish of her hands.

As Peyton and Grace read Chris’ work, he resumed his answer. “The original spell was too broad. It probably would have left the target completely blind or something. I fixed it by specifying in the last few lines that the intent was to prevent hallucinations.”

Phoebe took the paper from her daughter and skimmed Chris’ changes. Then, she nodded.

She turned to Peyton, but Grace spoke first.

“Was he right? I would have thought the spell worked the opposite way, creating more illusions rather than preventing vision at all.”

Phoebe nodded, to her niece and nephew’s confusion. “Spell work isn’t black and white. I wasn’t looking for one specific answer, just a correct one.”

Grace nodded. She didn’t look entirely pleased with the response, but didn’t protest.

Now, it was Peyton’s turn. She passed her paper around the triangle. “I think this spell would affect both the witch and the demon. I reworded it.”

When Phoebe read her daughter’s paper, she formed a placid smile. “Your spell wouldn’t work,” Phoebe rebutted gently, and took a few minutes one-on-one with Peyton to address her confusion.

Grace concluded the lesson by highlighting an obscure issue that Phoebe hadn’t counted on, but had to concede, and proposing a similarly unusual solution, that once again, was technically correct, if more complicated than necessary.

Still, there wasn’t a shadow hand in sight, so Phoebe considered it a win.

Piper, meanwhile, was less confident.

“No,” she corrected with as much patience as she could manage, “that’s hemlock root.”

Unfazed, Portia tried again. “Galangal.”

“No.”

“Fennel seed,” contributed Astrid, as sure in her answer as she was in most of her life, a confidence that remained undiminished after Piper denied the answer.

Wyatt snapped his fingers and called out victoriously, “Dandelion!”

Piper sighed. “The answer is wormwood. I think I need to go over the mid-tier herbs again.”

“Aunt Piper, isn’t that what the recipes are for? Why do we have to learn the properties of every ingredient?” noted Astrid, sliding down her chair into a position Piper was sure wasn’t actually comfortable, or good for the long-term health of her back.

“Yeah,” piped up Portia. “The Book tells us everything we need to know.”

“Well, at least you’re trusting a book and not your phone,” muttered Piper.

“I still don’t know the difference between coriander and cilantro,” confessed Wyatt with a tilt to his smile she recognized as teasing.

Piper’s answer was automatic, a lifetime of culinary passion drove the words out of her mouth. “They’re from the same plant. Coriander is the seed and cilantro the leaf.” In a measure of will, she stopped her explanation there, before the lesson truly go off track.

She shot her son a look that said I know what you’re doing, mister, and resumed her speech. “The Book is great, but it is old and written by witches who couldn’t even begin to comprehend the phrase “Google it”. What happens when a recipe uses an old-fashioned name instead of the one on our vials? Or the witch who made the recipe made an assumption that future readers would know not to mix poppy seeds and dried beetles until buffered by consecrated oil because her generation had to know all this because an amorphous voice in a box wasn’t around yet to ask? You blow up my kitchen is what. And yourselves. And possibly the neighbours, if you use enough poppy.”

Piper let her spiel sit for a moment and then fired off a question to the first witch who met her gaze.

“Astrid, how do you store calendula?”

Astrid froze and looked to her cousins in a panic, who offered no guidance. “Not in plastic?”

The paltry answer did not satisfy Piper. “Upside down, in bunches of half a hand,” she corrected firmly, and then moved on. “Portia, why would a potion require a ring of celery salt?”

“Because it’s a Bloody Mary,” shot back Portia, who then clapped both hands over her mouth and froze, as if an Angered Piper’s vision was motion-based.

Astrid laughed outright while Wyatt drowned a chuckle with a forced cough. Piper sighed again.

“All three of you are going to report to Leo sometime today, who will have Beginner’s Guides to Potions on hand for each of you. In one week, I will give you a pop quiz, and you will pass.” She left no room for argument, and received none.

If Paige thought her last session had been difficult, it paled in comparison to the three in front of her. By all accounts, two witches who thought they didn’t need help and one who, in her deepest of hearts, feared her powers, shouldn’t be dwarfed by the Middle Trio, but they were.

The problem was, each was obstinate in their own way. Pru was gifted, knew it, and considered herself correct. Melinda relied on gut instinct over brainpower, and Henry just didn’t care enough to engage with the matter. It was like talking to three walls, who joined together almost accidentally to form one, super, annoying Great Wall of Sure, Mom/Aunt Paige, whatever you say.

Well, Paige had two ways of dealing with walls. She was, after all, half whitelighter, and a little wall couldn’t hold her back. She’d just take herself to the other side.

“Junior,” she said bluntly. “I can’t really work on your powers. Your Aunt Phoebe tried to speed up her premonitions once and it lost her everything but the bare essentials. You are, remember that I love you, unteachable.”

“Thanks, mom!” Junior responded. Then, he laughed, and Paige knew he hadn’t taken it personally.

When metaphorically orbing past the problem wouldn’t work, Paige used option two: Just Smash It.

“You two, however,” she continued, turning to Prudence and Melinda, “You two need serious work.”

That statement drew their attention. Neither liked it. Paige just kept smashing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Pru. The initial distaste faded from her face, replaced by confusion, almost as if she was sure Paige had spoken out of turn.

Well, bull, because Paige hadn’t.

She focused on Pru first, since she’d spoken up, and left the simmering hothead for last.

Paige grabbed a tennis ball and held it loosely in her outstretched hand. “Lift this for me.”

Pru moved to oblige, no doubt eager to show that, actually, she was quite the capable witch. Pru squinted her eyes to activate her power, and Paige stopped Pru there by gripping the ball and bringing it out of view. The squint on Pru’s face remained, but this one was born from confusion.

“You’ve had this power since before you could walk and you still channel it through your eyes?”

Wounded, Pru pulled back in her seat. Then, her features firmed over. On both sides, her cousins looked equally flabbergasted.

Paige explained, “I didn’t see it firsthand, but, as I understand, as a witch with telekinesis improves, she starts to channel the power through her hands.”

Seconds ticked by in silence until Pru took a sharp inhale before speaking again. “No one has ever accused me of using my power wrong before.” Her words had bite and intended to tear.

Paige stood firm. “We didn’t want you force you down a path you weren’t ready for,” she explained, and guessed Pru hadn’t been expecting her aunt to say so. “It may not mean anything at all, but all the other witches in our family have channeled their power, eventually, through their hands. Myself, Wyatt, Chris, Grams, and Prue are only the most recent.”

At the mention of her namesake, clarity flashed across Pru’s face. “I am not Aunt Prue,” she stated, looking Paige directly in the eye, “And her path is not mine.”

That, Paige didn’t have a response for, so she let the matter drop temporarily. There was the other witch to deal with.

Melinda took the offensive, as Paige knew she would. “You going to tell me I don’t jazz hands as well as mom?” she drawled, wiggling her fingers for emphasis.

A little worn out with the conversation, Paige’s patience thinned. “No, I’m saying you don’t do jazz hands enough.”

“Now I haven’t used my power enough?” Melinda repeated, bitter like cough medicine. Under her breath, she added, “Like that’s my fault.”

Paige, however, knew the comment was coming, and caught it. “It is. Your powers were bound for a reason, Melinda. I would think you would take more responsibility for your actions considering all the work you did two years ago to earn them back.”

“Well, fine,” the witch in question acceded, preferring to breeze past the manner, “But I didn’t have them for five years and I fell out of practise.”

Paige nodded. “And now you prefer to charge in fists swinging, even when freezing time would clearly be beneficial. I was there for the fight with Zennika and the planning before it, remember? You had to be reminded that you could freeze the demons, and when it came time, you barely tried. We don’t want an offensive lineman; we need a witch.”

Her nieces glared at her and her son shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “You guys wanted more responsibilities on the demon front, and that means having to face some harsh truths. Or should I sugar coat it for you?”

There was a chance her offer could be declined. Judging by their faces, either Pru or Melinda could walk out at any moment, which would no doubt persuade the other, and Junior would follow. It had happened often enough when they were children, and while they had grown up considerably since the time of the Terror Trio, their dynamic hadn’t changed that much.

Thankfully, it worked in the opposite direction as well.

Pru stuck out her hand in a short, jerky motion. “Give me the damn ball,” she said and Paige didn’t even care (much) that it was more of an order than a request. Melinda held out her hand expectantly and Junior promised, that since, you heard his mom, his powers are basically useless, he might as well help the actual heavy hitters out a bit.

And, gradually, they improved.

Chapter Text

Tea and Tactics

Everyone had been too polite, or too focused, during brunch to mention the incessant whining, but now that the dishes were being cleared away by Leo, Wyatt, and Pru, the remaining Halliwells at the table began to trade covert glances with each other. The high-pitched screech flowed through their conversations and picked up on a whim, drowning out the ends of words and preventing necessary context for the sentence “You can’t just buy the donuts. Screw Trevor, they will be mine” to be heard. The noise inflicted torture on the closest, Henry Junior, in particular, until finally fed up, he stalked over to the window and started picking at the frame.

Phoebe clapped her hands twice to commander the attention of her family. “Time to get to business,” she declared, but she might have well saved her breath. The whine picked up in pitch and, just like that, her audience drifted.

“Henry, leave the Manor alone,” reprimanded Paige, shooting a glare towards her son currently pressing his weight against one of the shutter hinges.

Grace stepped beside her brother and took a long look out the window. “Tree branches shouldn’t be able to move that much, right?”

Chris stuck a finger in each ear and pretended to be oblivious to his parents’ disapproval.

“We’ve hit Malachy hard, and we need to keep up the momentum.” Outside, something solid thudded against something equally solid. “I think we’ve gotten his attention and now is the time to strike.” There was another clunk and all eyes flew to the window above the sink, waiting for the moment it gave way under the pressure. The droning continued. “Does anybody—Oh for magic’s sake, do you have a hole in the house?” shouted Phoebe, jumping between topics like a moth between two flames. The wind whistled louder in response.

“I think it’s that board there,” proposed Henry, pointing to a piece that, in Phoebe’s opinion, looked no different from those around it. “It’s wiggling a little more than the others, see?”

A crash echoed from upstairs, followed by doors slamming in succession. Piper leapt out of her chair and followed the noise. Phoebe was just about to try speaking again when the eldest Charmed One’s voice bellowed from the top of the stairs. “Chris, did you leave a window open?”

With an exaggerated cry of frustration, Phoebe gave up. “What is up with the wind?” she wondered aloud, flinging her hands around in a circle. “It’s like Mother Nature is trying to blow the whole city into the Bay.” As an inside joke, she squinted conspiratorially at Piper, who cocked her head, scrunched her nose, and smirked.

With equal distaste, Paige patted Phoebe’s shoulder. “Let’s just take a minute, find whatever hole is causing that screeching, and try again.”

The group split into fragments. Chris ambled to his room, presumably to shut the window, with the urgency of a teenager told to clean his room. Henry Junior and Leo retrieved the necessary tools from the garage to tackle the loose panel they hoped would stop the whining and moderately succeeded. Piper enlisted her daughter and Pru to help clean up picture frames shattered when the draft whipped through the upper floors and slammed shut half the upstairs’ heavy walnut doors. The rest of the family stayed in the kitchen, soaking in the blissful silence.

Impromptu repairs completed and distractions minimized, Phoebe tried her speech for the third time. “Three powerful demons are a good start and I want to chase the momentum. Malachy has to be feeling the heat, but I don’t think we want him too focused on us. Maybe we should go after someone a little lower on the totem pole.”

“Like a henchman of a henchman?” asked Wyatt.

“Henchman twice removed,” contributed Junior, laughing at his joke.

“Yes, like that,” Phoebe agreed, ignoring the snickers coming to her left. “Any ideas?”

Wyatt and Pru pulled out their phones and scrolled in silence, risking reprimand were it not likely they were consulting notes. Chris leaned back in his chair.

“Why don’t we go after Malachy right now, before he gets any more friends?” asked Astrid bluntly. “How tough could he be?”

The Charmed Ones shared a look.

“To unite the Underworld, even just enough to grab the Source’s powers? Tough,” Piper confirmed after a moment, her tone making it difficult to argue against.

“Even more reason to vanquish him now. With all of us together, I’m sure we can do it!” Astrid pressed, dauntless, though her twin did not share the confidence. Grace started a sentence several times, and finally left it off with only a sigh and a shake of her head.

“Absolutely not,” her mother answered for her. “Malachy is our responsibility. You nine will be far away when we vanquish him.”

As several of their children opened their mouths to argue, the Charmed Ones shook their heads, their movements eerily in sync.

Pru played peacemaker. “Mom and the Aunts want to take out his support before they go after Malachy himself,” she explained to Astrid and Grace. “That’s why we’ve targeted mid-to-upper level demons so far.”

“And will continue to do so,” declared Piper with a frown.

Melinda sat up. “So, who’s next?”

Grace stood up suddenly. “It’s dry in here,” she muttered with a forced laugh. “Does anyone else want a water?” And, without waiting, she strode over to the fridge and busied herself with the faucet.

Paige watched Grace fawn over flavourings with an intent the young witch usually saved for engine repair. Paige’s lips pursed under the weight of her unspoken thoughts, but she left her daughter to her sought solace.

“What about Reiner?” proposed Henry. “Without a Seer, Malachy wouldn’t have much of an advantage, would he?”

Piper shook her head. “Not yet. Reiner will be too well guarded.”

“Besides,” Phoebe added sardonically, “From the way Kyra spoke, it sounded like Seers are one wrong vision away from a sudden, painful dismissal anyway.”

Wyatt looked up from his notes. “The Grimlocks,” he suggested with surety. “Halloween is a month away. That’s when they’re strongest, right?”

Phoebe nodded and Piper shook her head. “Those were Grimlocks we’d already vanquished. I don’t think they originally attacked at Halloween.”

Phoebe’s eyebrows knit together as clarity dawned on her. “That’s right. It was Dee’s son’s birthday. I remember running through the park, so it might have been spring?”

With a shake of her head, Phoebe drew her thoughts from the past. “But the Grimlocks… they’d be good to take out.”

Paige clapped her hands together once. “Great! How do you kids want to handle this?”

The kids in question shared glances.

“I can do some recon in the daytime,” Melinda offered, breaking the silence. “But my evenings are spoken for until Eric ‘sees that I have demonstrated proper respect for my job’.”

“Daytime might catch them off-guard,” agreed Pru. “I’ll see about taking a few hours off work.”

“I’ll come with,” Astrid said, engaged and eager.

A glass cup, half empty, clattered to the counter. Grace’s head shot up. Her eyes were wide and she appeared frozen.

“Don’t you have a paper due next week?” she said finally to her twin.

Astrid glared back. “I can do both.”

Paige gave a sarcastic chuckle. “I don’t think so. School comes first.”

“But—”

“No buts. That was the deal. You can help next time, if it doesn’t interfere with your classes.”

Daughter and mother engaged in a war of glares. Eventually, Astrid relented. Curses and the beginnings of a rant slipped out of her mouth as she orbed away without saying goodbye. Grace waited a moment to put her glass in the dishwasher, and then followed.

Piper moved smoothly past the argument. “You two stick together. Do not go off alone,” she ordered Melinda and Pru. “We’ll meet back up Thursday afternoon to prepare the vanquishing potion and form a plan of attack.”

“I’ll make sure we have the ingredients we need,” offered Wyatt, for wont of anything else to do.

“Good,” said Phoebe, sounding confident. “We’re a family and we will weather this storm, one demon at a time.”

Chapter Text

Henry I

The problem, Henry Mitchell Junior realized, was the suit. Which meant, number one, that Pru had been right that the three-digit price tags weren’t just a scam, number two, that it was his fault for choosing the two-digit tag, and number three, he was stuck with the suit. The jacket scratched at his collar and diverted sweat from his back, where it might otherwise be missed, to his pits, where the stains would definitely be noticed. The tag at his collar irritated both the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck and his ears when the fabric scratched against itself with any slight movement. The fit was off—because of course he hadn’t paid to tailor it—the pants came too high on both the waist and the legs, and it collected lint like the bottom of a Swiffer.

But, Penny had requested a classy brunch, and a classy brunch at a place fancy enough to make its own ice meant the suit wasn’t optional. With his cousins, he might have complained, but Penny was different. After all, she also abided by the dress code, in a peach-coloured dress, high heels, and hair pulled into an elaborate updo, all of which, Henry assumed, was mildly uncomfortable and probably took a long time to put together.

He also supposed Le Mistral was worth the effort. Soft lighting gave the room an otherworldly glow (and he should know, having already frequented several otherworldly places), and each of the small, circular tables had a centrepiece that some poor soul had spent far too long carefully sculpting each individual white tulip into the perfect position. Something in the combination of a sloped ceiling, tall-backed chairs, and strategically placed tables gave the seating arrangements a sense of privacy Henry wouldn’t have thought possible in such a small dining area.

(The food, so far, he thought was pretty good, but better from his Aunt Piper, though he refrained from mentioning so.)

In terms of Boyfriending, Henry figured he was doing pretty good. The brightness radiating from Penny’s expression backed up his assumption. Certainly, the date was going well enough to make up for completely ditching her the last time she was in the city. A fact which hadn’t been his fault, but he couldn’t exactly tell her ‘a demon made me slit my own throat, so I was pretty tired’, and maybe he had also forgotten to call at all that night and most of the next day, until he finally looked at his phone at four in the afternoon and discovered the slew of angry, then worried, then angry again texts. That part, he recognized, was on him.

(And even then, the best he could come up with on the spot had been ‘I fell asleep’, which she naturally hadn’t bought because it was a ludicrous explanation he would have stuffed back down his throat if an easy spell had come to mind, personal gain be damned. His Mom and Aunts hadn’t undersold the difficulties of dating a perceptive mortal and he wasn’t a good liar to begin with.)

Hence, the suit, and all irritation therein, was a burden Henry gladly bore if it meant his girlfriend felt a little more comfortable in the relationship.

Penny’s laugh was more of a giggle as the waitress poured another round of mimosas, and even Henry was beginning to feel a little lightheaded.

“Do I want another crepe?” Penny wondered aloud to herself, tapping the side of her jaw with one manicured finger. “Or a croissant? Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll split one with you,” offered Henry, recognizing the arrival of Penny’s sweet tooth.

“Perfect!” Penny chirped, “Order us one, please?” Without waiting for a response, she stood and practically flounced in the direction of the restrooms, giving Henry a quick kiss on the forehead as encouragement as she passed. “With whipped cream.”

He didn’t have to wait long for the waitress to return to his table. When he was finally alone, or at least, away from the eyes of anyone he would value the opinion of, Henry set about in a quick war against his suit jacket. Obviously, there wasn’t much he could do with the pants, but the jacket, oh yes, would suffer some improvements.

First to go was the tag, which he ripped out and stuffed into a pocket and hoped he’d never see it again. Then, pulled one button on the white shirt underneath to pull open and used the loosened fabric to fan against the clammy skin around his neck. A nearby woman with slicked, red hair and a set of pearls around her throat sent him several not-so-covert glares, but Henry was not about to care. He almost grabbed a (hand carved) ice cube from his flute to press against the skin at his nape, but realized as his fingers brushed the rim of the glass, that such an action would rightfully draw even more attention. So, he allowed himself the occasional scratch instead, in thirty second intervals in case Penny caught him.

Penny’s absence stretched on. At first, Henry was non-plussed. On their third date, she had disappeared for twenty-five minutes, and it was only after he’d considered himself truly abandoned did he discover that Penny had been helping a woman through a panic attack next to the dance club’s coatroom. This time, it could be a choking grandpa or one of the waitstaff dealing with an unruly customer. Or, equally possible, she just took a long time.

As the minutes ticked by, a third possibility snuck its way into Henry’s thoughts. Evil.

Aunt Phoebe had just said they’d likely caught the Source of All Evil’s attention. At the time, it had seemed a good step, but in a crowded, middle-class establishment with his mortal girlfriend, Henry was re-evaluating his opinion. Had a demon grabbed her? Had a warlock recognized her significance in Henry’s life? Was it that clan of vampires he’d stumbled through a month ago?

He found his attention darting back to the hallway he’d last seen her disappear into, then focus there entirely. His previous discomfort was forgotten.

Henry stood, heedless of the napkin placed on his lap at the beginning of the meal. It drifted to the floor as he pulled himself away from the table and wove through other customers and waitresses bearing trays of food and drink. His height gave him an advantage as he scoped out the other patrons for anything remotely demonic. Nothing; just ordinary folks chatting and taking small bites out of egg dishes and flaky pastries and sipping steaming coffees.

Then, Penny’s laughter floated to his ears. Henry followed it into the hallway. It was brighter than it appeared from the dining room, with sconces on the wall and light emanating from the open kitchen door. Midway down the hallway, perhaps a dozen steps away from two adjacent doors bearing restroom markers, Penny leaned against the stucco walls.

Henry didn’t immediately duck out of sight, though the impulse hit him, as childish as it would be. Penny didn’t notice him regardless, too caught up in a conversation with a waiter with curly, blond hair and black pants that didn’t display the wearer’s socks.

Penny was the picture of congeniality, with upright posture, hands expressive, and the pleasant demeanour Henry had been drawn to at their meeting. She stood at a personal, but not inappropriate distance, and refrained from making physical contact with the man, though Henry knew she was a very touch-oriented person.

Henry stayed at the entrance to the hallway, observing from a distance. The man didn’t look like a demon, or a warlock, or a vampire. He wasn’t threatening or overbearing, and Penny didn’t look scared. Eventually, his brain acceded the unlikeliness of a demon willingly dealing with WASPs on a daily basis, and the tension ebbed out of Henry’s shoulders. No longer alert, he dropped his ready stance and allowed his spine to relax into its slight slouch.

Crisis averted. He turned to return to the table, content with Penny’s safety, and found himself looking backwards, once, then twice. On the third time, halfway through the dining room, Penny met his gaze.

Too late he realized he was staring and tried to bring a disarming smile to his face. The result clearly didn’t pass muster as the happiness vanished from Penny’s expression. As Henry forced his features into something not completely creepy, he realized how scrunched his brow had been and how downturned his lips had ended up. No wonder Penny looked alarmed.

The man she’d been speaking too followed Penny’s gaze and Henry offered a half wave in response, feeling like a fool as he did so. He hoped he wasn’t frowning anymore at least. Deciding not to bother with an introduction, Henry returned to the safety of their table, where a new dark chocolate and raspberry crepe waited. He busied himself arranging cutlery for the two of them, and then downed the entire flute of mimosa as if a convenient reset button rested at the bottom of the glass.

Penny returned as he set the glass down. She smoothed her dress with quick movements and wouldn’t meet Henry’s eyes until he slid the crepe over to her side.

“You get first dibs,” he said, presenting the plate as a peace offering.

She stared at the plate—and him—for a long time, enough that Henry had to fight the urge to fidget.

“Was that a friend of yours?” he asked, wary of the silence.

Finally, he found himself the sole focus of her gaze. “Yes. We went to college together,” she answered, a little curtly.

Henry gave the plate another short push. “Small world.”

Penny waited half a minute, and then responded by taking a bite out of the crepe. The whipped cream brushed against her nose. She smiled.

“It tickles.”

“Let me help with that.” Henry reached over, not a difficult task with his long arms, and gently wiped the whipped cream from her scrunched nose. Then, with a sly grin, he licked his finger. “Mmmm booger fluff.”

That caused a snort to erupt out of Penny’s nose and she laughed, loud and clear. “I can’t take you anywhere!”

His retort was to scoop more whipped cream from the plate (with his finger, like an uncivilized brute who didn’t even think of tailoring his suit) and dab it on his nose. “Now we’re even.”

He expected Penny to, perhaps, copy his earlier movements even if she didn’t actually eat the whipped cream. Instead, she stood from her chair in a sudden motion, and darted around the table to lean over and kiss the tip of his nose. Henry blushed.

“There,” said Penny victoriously. “Now we’re even.”

Chapter Text

Melinda II

“It’s been a while since I’ve been on a cheap date.”

Melinda rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s just bragging.”

Pru added a dollop of mustard to her hotdog and passed Melinda the chipotle sauce. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Pru teased.

“Nah,” Melinda said after a few seconds of furrowed concentration on a bottle that refused to release its contents. “It’s my fault for having a ten dollar budget for an apology dinner.”

Pru’s face turned serious, so Melinda made sure to speak before her cousin. “It’s fine. I got my job back.”

Melinda felt Pru’s stare, and felt grateful when she didn’t say anything other than “That’s good.”

They left the hotdog stall and continued down the street at a leisurely pace.

“Did you think about finding a different job?” Pru asked as they waited for the signal to cross the street.

Melinda forced a sarcastic statement down. She was being good today, and being good meant not assuming the worst in everything Pru had to say. She wasn’t that person anymore and had to act like it. “I thought about getting into gym training. I applied to a lot of different places, and got a lot of nothing.” She shrugged. “A paycheque is a paycheque.”

Pru hummed. “What about archaeology?”

“What about it?”

“That’s what you wanted to do, isn’t it? You got your degree. Hava Java was supposed to a temporary thing.”

Melinda laughed. “Everyone was right. It’s not a field suitable for me. Can you imagine me dealing with peer review?”

Beside her, Pru hid a chuckle behind her meal. “I can think of the two-word response you’d give.”

“Right? Like, who do they think they are to tell me that I’m wrong? Plus, you have to schmooze for grants and stuff. I can’t even get a second free sample at the grocery store.”

“It’s in your tone of voice. You’re too ‘what are you going to do about it?’”

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?”

Pru gave Melinda a great, exaggerated sigh, even throwing her head back to amplify the effect. Then, they walked in silence before Pru asked. “Mind if I ask where we’re heading?”

Melinda took a quick look around. The streets were populated with thin trails of pedestrians and the constant hum of traffic. Specialist shops mixed with one-item food stalls and the occasional town house. The wind from the morning had calmed to an occasional breeze and the skies were beginning to darken as the sun made its descent beyond the horizon. She was sure there was a park somewhere nearby, but doubted she’d be able to convince Pru of any kind of ulterior motive beyond aimless wandering.

Not that there was anything in particular wrong with aimless wandering.

“No where in particular,” Melinda admitted. “I just wanted to get out.”

“Right,” Pru said simply, as if she knew that Melinda had more to say. (Of course, she did, she was Pru.)

‘This is it’, Melinda’s gut told her. ‘This is the moment. Now.’

Melinda obeyed. “And I wanted to apologize for last week. Most of what I said—and did—was uncalled for.”

Pru nodded and then guided them both to an empty bench. While Melinda waited for a response, she tried to gauge Pru’s reaction. Pru’s brows were furrowed, which could mean she wasn’t very receptive, or it could be just that she was listening intently (or it could be that she’d overused her powers and was developing a headache). On the plus side, Pru wasn’t frowning, and hadn’t done the thing with her face that meant she was done with the person speaking (Melinda wouldn’t be able to describe how exactly to identify that face, just that it was The Disgusted One, and it was the last one anyone saw while they still had a shred of dignity.)

The unexpected happened. “I’m sorry too,” admitted Pru quietly, staring at her clean, white tennis shoes. “For what I said and did. I think it was just a bad week for both of us.”

“You’re not the one who punched one of her best friends in the face.”

“A demon made you do that,” Pru said firmly. “I don’t believe for one second that you actually wanted to hit me.”

“I—thanks.” Struck momentarily dumb, Melinda lost focus. She found herself staring at her clenched right fist, resting on her lap as if it were completely innocent. She watched the tendons flex as she moved each knuckle, saw the blue-black veins on her hand ripple under the force, and felt her nails dig into the skin of her palm.

Why wasn’t she more horrified that a demon had so easily made her nearly break her cousin’s nose? Why was is hot-blooded frustration she felt and not writhing guilt?

“Maybe it’s time to address the mammoth in the room,” Melinda muttered.

Pru swung her head from side to side, checking for mortal eavesdroppers. “The premonition.” She uttered those two words as if they were anchors, sinking her body to the bottom of a lake, and given how quickly she caught onto Melinda’s train of thought, Melinda guessed it must weigh heavily on Pru’s mind too. Especially lately.

Melinda nodded and consciously relaxed her hand. “I thought we didn’t need to talk about it. It seemed too ridiculous to be real. I guess I didn’t factor demonic possession into the equation.”

“Neither had I, to be honest.”

“And now I know it’s going to happen again, so I’m left with wondering just when I’m going to lose control of my body.”

Pru’s face softened in sympathy. “I only experienced it from the outside. I hadn’t considered what you felt.”

Melinda felt a scowl crawl across her features. Her hand clenched again. “It was fucking terrible.” After a moment, she added, “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” came Pru’s quiet reply.

The pair sat in silence, long enough for a group of excited preteens to round the corner and then disappear from view down the street.

“We’ve fought before, but I don’t remember it ever getting this bad,” commented Pru finally. “We’re not resolving anything, just letting everything fester, and I don’t know what changed.”

Melinda gave the statement some thought. It was certainly true that the two had fought in the past—they both had definite opinions on things that often clashed—but had, until recently come together even stronger after whatever squabble petered out. Even with the more serious incidents, the ones that stretched across weeks and involuntarily involved their closest friends, they’d found a way to resolve their issues, with no lingering ill will. Now that she thought about it, it was the very nature of those compromises that made her bond with Pru so strong. She always knew that she would see eye-to-eye with her cousin eventually.

So, what had changed?

She tried to recall the months previous, to try to pinpoint the exact moment she and Pru had lost each other, or even just a general feeling, but soon decided it was useless. Melinda’s brain felt like the worn-out punching bags at her gym. Much more pressure, and it was liable to just burst.

“No offense” Melinda suggested, “But I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere by thinking.”

“What do you suggest?” Pru asked, in a neutral tone. They were both trying at reconciliation, at least.

She hadn’t really had a follow up, however, and smiled sheepishly. The grin turned devious as a plan came to mind. “I think we need to have fun.”

Melinda stood up, feeling revitalized, and grabbed both wrappers and lobbed them into the nearest trash can. “Come on,” she said to a bemused Pru. “I’ll let you drive.”

Twenty-five minutes of red lights and navigational errors, they stood next to one another and cocked their heads to the side.

“You know, one of these years, we’re going to have to grow beyond this,” Pru said, barely smothering a chortling laugh.

Melinda swung her hand out widely, and pointed with an open palm. “The cloud looks like a butt, Pru! There’s no maturing around it.”

The suppressed mirth burst forth from Pru’s mouth and Melinda found herself laughing alongside. Their laughter drew unamused stares from those nearby, but by now, the cousins were old hats at ignoring this particular brand of disapproval.

“That’s what a gallery is for, isn’t it?” Melinda stated, mostly for the benefit of those still giving her the stink eye. “If you open your work to the public, you have to be ready to take whatever asinine opinion forms, and this public thinks that cloud looks like two butt cheeks. It has to be intentional.”

“Well,” commented Pru in a sudden deadpan tone, “I see your cloud butt and raise you unintentional phallic tree.”

Melinda followed Pru’s indication to the nearby painting, and burst into laughter anew.  She held onto Pru’s shoulders as they shuffled closer. Melinda read the placard underneath and her giggles became snickers.

“Jorje Mendalez,” she read aloud. “Of course, a man just had to find a way to put his dick in it.”

Pru offered an appeasing smile to those around them. “Come on, modernism is this way.”

Melinda followed Pru through the crowds past a series of paintings of people with skewed proportions. “You think ole’ Anise is here?” she asked as they transitioned into canvases of bright colours and undefined lines.

“I think it’d be a miracle is she wasn’t,” Pru answered confidently.

Sure enough, the third painting in bore Anise’s signature, and the women converged on it.

“That’s the ugliest shade of pink I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s just so offensively pretentious. It almost makes me appreciate Kinkade more.”

After another moment, staring at the canvas in revulsion, Melinda said, “If I had any money, I’d buy one of her paintings. After all, she has given us many hours of entertainment. I almost feel as if I owe her.”

Then, she added, “I’d have to put it in the back of the closest, of course, preferably under all my old climbing gear.”

“It just goes to show, one terrible TA is worth more than the class she taught.”

Melinda couldn’t even remember what class it was. She could narrow it down to two, Transcendentalism in Mid-Twentieth Century Literature or History of Mid-century American Economics, but honestly couldn’t pin down any of the specifics of the class she taught. The only impression that remained was that it had been four months of pop quizzes, never-ending articles, and group presentations, all helmed by a woman only a few years older than her students, but who considered herself twice as smart.

She did, however, remember the “extra credit” offer on the second-last class to attend a gallery night featuring Anise’s work, and since Melinda had been right on the edge of the four months being completely pointless (and a waste of money), and Pru was angling for the highest gpa she was capable of, they’d taken the extra two percentage points. They’d even managed to have fun at the event, albeit at the expense of their TA.

And they’d had fun the next show too, and the next and the one after that.

And now this one.

It seemed Melinda owed Anise something after all.

The main attraction over, the two Halliwells exited the gallery, chatting idly as they crossed the street and weaved through dinner traffic. Pru stopped shot in front of a 24-hour pharmacy. She pointed through the windowfront, blinds hung loose to let the last rays of sun inside.

“Is that Chris?!?”

Chapter Text

Chris II

Chris knew he was walking a thin line, one that Wyatt wouldn’t dream of nearing and even Melinda probably would step around carefully. It wasn’t necessarily an emergency—yet. A glance at his phone, on his person for once, indicated he had two hours left, which was absolutely enough time to pick up the prescription he’d left until last minute from the pharmacy that was easier on the wallet but took twice as long to fill (thirty minutes, at least, if fewer than five are waiting in line), pick up the spare linen and deliver the extra linen to Three’s (forty-five minutes, thereabout), make sure the set-up for the following day’s private event was proceeding well, drive back to the Manor, put on something club-friendly, and then meet his date at the club he was pretty sure began with an X (or maybe it was a Z). Totally doable.

All his life he’d heard about the perils of leaving things until the last minute; how he shouldn’t cram for tests, pay his bills well before the deadline, and arrive fifteen minutes early to every appointment. Well, he’d crammed his way through a solid passing grade in high school, hadn’t had a service irrevocably cancelled yet, didn’t bother to check his credit score, and quickly learned that every place that needed appointments was continually running half an hour behind anyway.

So, he felt rather unbothered as he pushed open the glass door to his preferred pharmacy. Clearly, the fates agreed with his haphazard nature. There were only three people in line. As he waited, he checked his messages to Julianne. The club was Zephyr. He had things totally under control, no problem.

The pharmacist ambled at his standard pace, carefully inspecting each bottle he handed out, checking in with each customer, and repeating relevant warnings. Twenty-six minutes later, it was Chris’ turn and he nodded through the cautions he’d already heard three times.

Chris turned around and almost dropped his bag.

He didn’t need reminding of her name this time. “Lacie?” he greeted, in a pleasant voice. He wasn’t completely sure how she felt on her end, and he supposed his own feelings largely depended on if the emergency call had been a ruse or not.

In an instant, he determined there hadn’t been any deception to it at all.

The lavender dress she’d worn in the pub looked out of place under the harsh lighting of the pharmacy, rumpled and hanging askew on one shoulder. Her shoulders were slouched and the sides of her head looked like they’d had hands running through her hair in frustration. Deep bags had formed under her eyes in the past twenty hours and the irises had taken on a glassy, almost dazed, sheen. In Chris’ teenage years and beyond, he’d been around countless people post-all-nighter. He doubted Lacie had even gone to bed.

She blinked at him in confusion and then startled as realization struck. “Chris, hi.” Her hands hung in mid-air, each holding a different bottle. He couldn’t help but sneak a glance. Cold medicine and extra-strength migraine relief.

“Are you alright?” Chris asked, concerned.

The look that crossed her face, although delayed, told Chris that she certainly was not okay. “I’m fine,” she lied.

Chris frowned. He knew she was lying—how could he not—but it wasn’t his place to push the issue. They’d had one date, and if Lacie didn’t want him involved, who was he to demand otherwise?

He forced a smile. “Well, good luck,” he said instead, and gently stepped around her.

“Wait,” she requested before he’d taken more than three steps down the aisle. “You said you were a bouncer?”

Chris turned around. “I did.”

“Could I ask you for a favour?”

Well, now his curiosity was piqued. What would a nurse need with a bouncer?

Then, he remembered that he had a date to be at in an hour and a half. The indecision must have showed on his face, because Lacie immediately threw up a fake smile and verbally backtracked. “You’re probably busy,” she stammered, shaking her head furiously and pointing to the bag in his hand. “Sorry.”

Chris gave the bag a little shake. “It’s nothing important. What do you need?”

The fates didn’t seem to be on his side after all, but that was fine, because he was a witch, and he didn’t need the fates anyway.

Lacie chewed on her lip before answering in a rush. “My brother is… sick and we can’t get him to take any medicine. Could you… hold him down?”

“Hold him down?”

“He needs help, but he keeps fighting us.”

Immediately, Chris gave her a thorough look over. He didn’t see any bruises, but that was just the skin he could see. She wasn’t favouring a side or limping. She just looked tired.

Chris nodded and Lacie breathed out in relief. “He’s in my car,” she explained and started for the exit. Gently, Chris halted her with a hand to her elbow and pointed to the pills still in her hand. Her face paled and then reddened. He wouldn’t mention it, but the blush gave her appearance a bit of energy.

Lacie made halting small talk with the cashier and Chris followed her out of the store once she’d paid. The temperature had dropped while he was in the pharmacy and the wind had picked up again. It bit into the exposed skin on his arms and cheeks.

Lacie hurried down the street and across the crosswalk to a sparsely-filled parking lot. With his longer legs, Chris should have easily kept stride with the shorter woman, but he found himself slipping into a half jog just to keep up.

“Here!” Lacie called out as they approached a red Prius. Inside, a dark-skinned woman with unbound hair was half turned around in the passenger seat, speaking to a slouched form in the back seat. As Chris neared the vehicle, the woman appeared just as harried as Lacie, and he guessed the misbuttoned windbreaker on her frame was from necessity, not a simple mistake.

Lacie yanked on the handle to the back seat behind the woman. “How is he?” Lacie asked the passenger, flinging her hand out to the man’s forehead.

“No change,” came the reply from the passenger. She stared at Chris, and Chris shifted awkwardly beside Lacie.

It took Lacie a few seconds to pull herself out of the back seat and explain. “Chris, this is my sister-in-law, Olivia. Olivia, this is my date from last night. I asked him for help.”

Surprise flashed across Olivia’s face, but all she said was “Okay.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Chris asked, unsure. From where Chris stood, only the legs of Lacie’s brother were visible. Belatedly, he realized his question came out ruder than he intended. “Is he sick?” he asked, this time channeling his father.

Before Lacie or Olivia could reply, Chris slouched, one hand on the roof of the car, to get a look at the man in the back seat. Hell embodied looked back at him.

Chris cried out in alarm, and only just barely caught his hand mid-swing in time to stop his power from activating in self-defence. Still, he held his hand at the ready, and moved to intercept the demon.

Except what had appeared to be a too-wide curved smile made out of flame was now nothing more than the ordinary thin lips of a man in his mid-thirties, with slicked-back, sandy-coloured hair and a pointed nose.

“Sorry,” he said to Lacie and Olivia, though he kept his eyes on the man. Too focused on interpreting what he just saw, he didn’t bother with an excuse.

It hadn’t been a hallucination or a vision, Chris was sure. He didn’t have that power, and as he stood just inside the car door to the backseat, Chris couldn’t avoid the heavy presence of evil emanating from the interior. The air around them burned and he took in the scent of phantom smoke with every inhale.

Chris took a step backward, intending on corralling Lacie away from the demonic host and returning for Olivia, but a booted foot interfered before he could take any action. Chris felt the breath leave his lungs and dimly registered that he’d been forced backwards a few feet. His vision swam and his chest burned where the boot had collided with his body.

He wheezed and blinked the stars away. Then, blinked in confusion, as his eyeline consisted only of a darkening sky. Lacie popped up to his right, frantic and aghast.

“Chris! Don’t move! Let me check you first,” she ordered and, without waiting for a response, yanked up the bottom of his shirt. He felt fingers press gently around the point of impact and groaned when she pressed a little too close to the wound. Lacie’s hands withdrew.

Chris pulled himself up despite Lacie’s protests, and waved her off as she began a tirade of apologies.

“Where did your brother go?”

Lacie’s head whipped back and forth. “Mark?” she shouted. Then, even more urgently, “Olivia?”

Sharp thwacks against the pavement heralded Olivia’s return. Panic had paled her face and robbed her of breath. “He ran this way,” Olivia shouted, panting.

Chris took off, barely noticing Lacie following behind him. His footsteps slapped against the sidewalk like a heartbeat. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.

He willed his muscles to respond faster, for his legs to take longer strides, for his arms to propel his body further in the microseconds between each foot hitting the ground, but there was nothing left to give. A decade of general apathy towards physical activity more intensive than a round of pool wasn’t much help in a sudden sprint.

There was something demonically wrong with Mark, Chris was sure of it. Chris was likewise sure that Lacie was mortal—her reaction otherwise wouldn’t make sense—and a mortal mixed up in evil machinations meant bad news.

Chris raced down the streets, nearly colliding with a car that hadn’t seen him. In between rapid pants, he tried to get an estimate of Mark’s lead, and cursed when he put the numbers together. Mark was gaining ground, either with freakish stamina to increase his already breakneck speed, or because Chris was losing steam. Perhaps both.

His foot collided with something and, again, Chris tasted dirt. His body toppled over itself and he collided with a trash can with a loud crunch and a sharp pain in his side. Well-meaning people further delayed him by insisting on helping him to his feet, so by the time Chris was able to lumber ahead, he feared the worst.

It was worse than he imagined. Mark hadn’t just gotten impossibly ahead. Mark had vanished.

Chris forced his shaking legs to take him down the rest of the block, so he could check the adjoining streets, and saw nothing. Lacie came up behind him, and the two had to take close to a minute before either had enough breath to speak.

“Where is he?” Lacie asked frantically between pants.

“Chris?” someone called before Chris could respond.

Chris pulled himself straight and looked towards the newcomer—or newcomers. Melinda and Pru stared at him in confusion laced with a tiny bit of amusement, and then jogged forward.

“Why do you look like you’re trying to experience a second life as a mole?” asked his sister derisively.

Chris didn’t have the energy to engage, so he turned to Pru. “Have you seen a man running by? About as tall as me, with light brown hair.” Chris didn’t bother to comment on the chances of running into them just when he needed help. Magic just seemed to work that way.

“He was wearing sweatpants and a maroon long-sleeved shirt,” Lacie added.

Pru and Melinda shook their heads. Chris turned to Lacie. “Lacie, these are my sister and cousin. Melinda is … a bouncer too. Why don’t you check the next block for your brother and we’ll look around here while I fill them in?”

Lacie gave him a short nod and took off.

“I think her brother is possessed by a demon,” Chris explained hurriedly, hoping they’d act now and ask questions later. His hope was in vain.

“Why do you think that?” questioned Pru. She didn’t sound like she didn’t believe him, per se, more like she wanted to make a decision for herself.

Unfortunately, they really didn’t have time to give her the full run down, especially as Pru was one to prefer details in her stories, just in case they provided necessary context. “Because he kicked me twenty feet from the car,” Chris answered as quickly as he could manage. “There’s something off about him.”

“Alright,” said Melinda immediately while Pru nodded in agreement. “Where’d he go?”

Chris pointed where he’d seen Mark last. “I tripped and lost track of him.” He turned back to the women and started in shock. “He’s right there,” he muttered, now pointing behind Pru and Mel.

They whirled around to see what Chris was gaping at. Thirty feet away, standing stationary, was Mark. Mark’s head rose in a motion that made Chris’ spine crawl and a feral grin crawled across Mark’s lips. Even at this distance, the man’s eyes had an otherworldly glow. Even the passersby seemed to notice. They skittered around him, essentially acceding the entire sidewalk to his presence. Some even chose to cross the street rather than come too close.

“Yep,” said Pru in a quick inhale. “That’s definitely something evil.”

Chris thought quickly. He had to admit his plan was less of a strategy and more of an instinct. “Mel, you distract him, so Pru or I can take him to the Manor. We just need to do this before Lacie comes back.”

“Too late,” refuted Melinda, looking past Chris’ shoulder.

Chris didn’t need to turn around. He heard Lacie call for her brother. Chris swore. “Shit. How do we do this?”

The seconds that passed felt like minutes and he eyed the lingering form of Mark with increasing paranoia.

“I can knock him out,” suggested Melinda.

Pru shook her head. “No. It doesn’t take much to kill someone with a head injury. We can’t risk his life for convenience.” She continued, more thinking out loud than providing a solution. “Freezing him is too obvious and we wouldn’t be able to move him without breaking the freeze anyway. Telekinesis is our only other option.”

That, at least, gave Chris an idea. “Distract him,” he told the pair. “I’ll use my power to hold him in place.”

“And then what?” asked Pru.

“Can you do that?” Melinda questioned, dubiously.

He answered by shoving them both forward. “Go!”

They scattered just as Lacie made it to Chris’ side. She pushed ahead and Chris followed, waiting. The moment to strike came in an instant. Chris could see Pru approach Mark boldly. He heard her voice but couldn’t decipher any words above the din of the city. Then, Melinda flew at him from the side, and together they crashed into the loading lane for a nearby store.

Lacie cried out in alarm and darted forward. Chris was already moving, with half his mind trying to find a way to explain things to Lacie without actually explaining anything.

As soon as he had a visual of the hulking man, Chris covertly clenched his fist and focused his entire being on holding Mark down. Chris immediately felt as if he’d pressed his bare hands against an activated stovetop. Then came three great knocks against his power in massive swings like a battering ram. In response, Chris pressed harder, forgetting for a moment that he fought against a mortal. The pressure ceased and Mark collapsed.

“He’s hot,” Melinda commented, scrambling away from Mark and patting her exposed skin like she expected to find it on fire.

Chris expected Lacie might take a moment to complain about Melinda’s “bouncer” technique, but she threw herself to her brother’s side instead. Lacie pressed the back of her hand against Mark’s forehead and immediately withdrew it with a wince. “He’s burning up again,” she whispered, sounding terrified.

Chris put his hand on her shoulder. “Go tell Olivia we found him and bring your car here. I’ll help you take him somewhere safe,” he suggested, gently. Lacie held Mark’s hand for a moment, and then nodded. She jogged out of eyesight.

“Go find mom and the Aunts,” he ordered his sister and cousin as soon as Lacie was out of earshot. “They should be able to help.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Pru asked, nodded at Mark’s unconscious body.

“Like I told Lacie, take him somewhere safe.”

“Are you nuts?” Melinda argued. “It’s like he’s on fire! And what are you going to do if he gets loose again?”

Chris scowled. “I’ll hold him down.” Melinda made to argue again, so Chris cut her off. “Something is wrong with him. I need you two to find out what so I can keep Lacie and her sister-in-law safe.”

Melinda swallowed any further arguments. Pru nodded. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“I have my phone,” Chris said. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Pru and Mel stayed long enough to help carry Mark into the back of Lacie’s car, the sight of which elicited a scream from Olivia, so Chris sent the two witches a pointed glance from his spot in the back seat. They nodded grimly and had disappeared from view before the car pulled out of the laneway.

Chris let Lacie explain things—or attempt too, at least—to Olivia, only stepping in to agree with Olivia not to take Mark to a hospital, Olivia from fear of exorbitant bills and the fear it would hurt Marks’ job and Chris because he knew Mark’s only hope was a magical intervention. As the car sped through the city faster than speeding laws allowed, Chris concentrated on the task at hand, already anticipating a long night ahead.

Chapter Text

Melinda III

“MOM!” Melinda shouted as soon as she and Pru reformed inside the Manor’s dining room. Beside her, in an equally loud voice, Pru called for their Aunt Paige. Pru had her phone out too, and in seconds it was at Pru’s ear. Melinda heard the ringing as she listened for any sign of her parents in the house. Footsteps thundered from both sets of stairs.

Leo emerged from the basement, still holding a bottle of laundry detergent in his hand. His pace was matched only by Piper, who descended with her hands empty and ready for action. They converged on Melinda and Pru, joined by Paige, and, later, Phoebe and Coop.

It was only after all five arrived and expected a cohesive story that Melinda realized how little she actually knew. “Someone Chris knows is probably evil,” was the extent of her knowledge, and even Pru wasn’t able to explain it much better.

“Slow down,” urged Phoebe. “Start from the beginning.”

Melinda did so, from leaving the gallery and seeing Chris fall flat on his face, to seeing the being’s grimace of a smile, to Chris staying behind in case the man woke up again. Reliving the chase brought Melinda’s attention to her hands. The skin appeared only a little pinker than normal, but the throb was anything but usual. “Fire was involved, somehow,” Melinda insisted, showing them her hands even though there wasn’t much to see.

“I don’t like the idea of keeping two innocents near a potential demon,” said Paige as Melinda concluded the story.

“Neither do I, or my son, frankly,” agreed Piper. “Are they safe?”

Melinda shrugged. She refused to lie to her mother (anymore) and couldn’t put into words her uneasiness, so the somewhat impertinent gesture would have to suffice.

“Chris has his phone,” Pru added.

Surprise crossed Piper and Leo’s faces. “I’ll tell him to call us when he can,” Piper said, in search of her own phone. The conversation continued while she returned with her purse, fished around it, pulled out the phone, and began tapping the screen hurriedly.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about this presence?” asked Leo.

Melinda and Pru shared a look as if in doing so they might drudge up some forgotten detail, but came up emptyhanded. “We didn’t see much of it,” Pru admitted.

“He was hot,” contributed Melinda. She immediately regretted her phrasing when she received three disapproving looks and two chuckles from the love gurus. “Hot in temperature,” she clarified, showing her palms again for emphasis. The skin on her palms were only slightly pink and didn’t actually indicate the pain she felt, so Melinda didn’t begrudge her Aunt Paige for not jumping forward with healing hands.

Pru didn’t refute the statement, though Melinda knew she hadn’t come in physical contact with Mark. “Chris said he was kicked twenty feet.”

Silence stretched.

“That’s everything,” confirmed Pru. She sounded sheepish, and Melinda couldn’t blame her. While the Charmed Ones hadn’t said anything to the effect, it was hard not to feel like the child shouting wolf. In the safety of the Manor, even the tension of the encounter was beginning to ebb. It now occurred to her that three witches shouldn’t have had such a hard time finding and subduing one possibly demon-possessed innocent. The man couldn’t even shimmer, and she and Pru were running to their moms for help? Embarrassing.

Melinda wondered if she tried really, really hard, she could manipulate her power into making the last five minutes not happen.

Piper’s phone rang. Melinda guessed that, like her, everyone anticipated the caller to be Chris. “A miracle,” Piper muttered, answering it. “Chris, are you safe?”

The reception on Chris’ end was spotty, but his answer came clear enough. “Yes.”

“And the innocents?” asked Phoebe, leaning closer than necessary towards the phone, directly into Paige’s line of sight. Paige put both hands on Phoebe’s shoulder and gently pushed her back.

“Mark’s still out and Lacie and Olivia are watching over him. We’re at their place in Bayview.”

Leo asked for clarification. “Mark is the one possessed?”

“Yes,” affirmed Chris, and in a single breath, he breezed through the rest of the connections. “Lacie was my date last night. Mark is her brother, and Olivia is Mark’s wife.”

“Alright. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Chris told his story, and in typical Chris fashion, it was light on details. Twice, he had to repeat parts of the timeline, adding in the crucial, missed details of his first recitation.

“Possession sounds likely,” Leo confirmed after a moment to think, calling on his years of Whitelighter experience. “Though it could be manipulation as well.”

“Like the deadly sins,” mused Phoebe, a faraway look in her eye.

Piper nodded. “Or a power broker. Super strength or flame based maybe.”

“It might be a shapeshifter taking the place of Mark,” suggested Paige.

Coop cocked his head in thought. “I wonder if there is an undercurrent of emotional coercion as well.”

Melinda’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of things.” The rest of her thought, namely wondering how on earth they were supposed to tell one apart from the other, she left unspoken.

Paige made eye contact with Melinda, and then Pru. “Good job, all three of you.”

Now, Melinda’s eyes bulged. She and Pru shared a look, and Melinda was relieved to see that Pru looked just as bewildered as Melinda felt. “Really?” Melinda asked, hesitatingly, and waited for the follow-up criticism. It didn’t come.

“It sounds like you followed your witch instincts, correctly noticed that something was wrong with an innocent man, neutralized him without causing harm, and have now requested help. I don’t think we could ask any more from you.”

“We just did what we were supposed to,” Pru mumbled, humble as ever. Melinda could have hugged her, if she wasn’t dumbfounded into near paralysis. Melinda almost didn’t want to speak at all, for fear of ruining the moment.

“What she said,” Melinda agreed, proudly, and standing a little straighter. She suspected she was also grinning like an idiot. Soaking up the praise like flowers took in sunlight before sunset, Melinda allowed the conversation to proceed without her input.

“This is your first innocent together, isn’t it?” asked Phoebe, smiling widely. “There’s no feeling like saving an innocent.”

Paige and Piper nodded. 

“I’d feel better if you could bring Mark here,” said Piper.

Chris immediately shot down the suggestion. “There’s no way Lacie or Olivia will leave Mark now, and even if they would consider the idea, I have no idea how I’d ask without sounding like a serial killer. I convinced Lacie not to take him to the hospital, and that’s about as good as it’s going to get.”

“What if we just told them the truth?” Melinda argued, her self-imposed silence ending prematurely. It was the shortest path to their destination, even if the road was a little bumpy.

The idea was met with so many shaking heads, Melinda would have gotten whiplash trying to track them all.

“We’re not there yet,” came Paige’s reply.

Leo explained a little further. “Revealing magic is a drastic step and should only be done when absolutely necessary.”

Phoebe clapped her hands together. “We can do this without going nuclear. We’ll just have to be careful. Chris, will you be able to run some simple tests for us? Nothing invasive, just trying to see what we’re dealing with here.”

“I’ll find a way, yeah,” Chris promised. “Get some stuff together and I’ll orb over.”

“Take some crystals with you, and try to set up a circle. It may help.”

“Got it.”

“And Chris, it doesn’t matter how big of a crowd there is, if the innocents’ lives—Mark’s included—are at stake, orb him here and we’ll deal with the fallout afterwards.”

 “I understand.” Chris was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, guilt weighed his voice down. “Mom, I wasn’t able to pick up the linen for Three’s tonight. Sorry.”

Piper waved the concern away. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Nope. No buts. Innocents come first, though I hope next time you won’t leave things until last minute.”

Melinda could practically hear Chris’ guilt thicken to a sluggish paste.

“Sorry,” he repeated in a mumble, no doubt both wishing he could have this conversation in private and thankful for the extra presences that would hold Piper’s ire back. At least, that’s how Melinda always treated these such moments.

The call ended with Chris promising to be there in twenty minutes. From there, the family dispersed.

Coop kissed Phoebe on the head. “I’ll take a look at Mark’s heart.” When his wife opened her mouth, he responded before she could speak. “I’ll be invisible the whole time. Mark may not be my charge, but I think this falls under my responsibilities anyway.”

“If Mark has a Cupid, maybe you can see what they know? If there were any warning signs? That sort of thing,” suggested Phoebe. Coop smiled in response and held Phoebe’s hands between their chests. Then, he released his clasp, stepped back, and beamed away.

As a group, the rest headed for the stairway. At the base, Leo pulled in front. “I’ll check in with Magic School: see if the Professors know anything and scour the library.”

Paige joined him. “I’ll come too.” To the rest, she added. “We’ll need more help.”

Mentally, Melinda reoriented herself. “Henry’s not doing anything—assuming his date is over, anyway. He’ll help. He and Wyatt were supposed to gather info on demons tonight anyway.”

“Send them our way,” Leo suggested, and he and Paige departed through the summoned door. Melinda shot her brother and cousin a quick and vague text, expecting they’d get a better explanation upon their arrival to Magic School anyway.

Now a quartet, Piper, Phoebe, Pru and Mel trooped up two flights of stairs to the attic. Piper began setting up a cauldron while Phoebe headed for the Book of Shadows. Melinda and Pru waited a second before they split to assist their mother.

“Get the crystals for me,” Piper directed as she concentrated on the beginnings of a potion. “We’re going to consecrate them. If there’s a sinister force behind this, hopefully these will repel it.”

Melinda approached the shelf of magical supplies and pulled out the drawer helpfully labeled “crystals”. In one trip, she hauled back six of the large, clear stones. “Apples and laurel leaves might work too, right?” she asked, dumping the crystals unceremoniously beside the pot.

Piper gave her a surprised look. “Right. Good idea. Those won’t look too out of place in a bedroom. Chris can call it an old folk remedy.”

The praise went straight to Melinda’s head, and, unbidden, her mouth blabbered on. “Henry and I sometimes set up a ring of apples in an Underworld passage and laugh at demons when they can’t cross it.”

“That’s a waste of perfectly good apples,” was Piper’s response.

Melinda laughed, surprised, though she didn’t push her luck by admitting that oftentimes the apples weren’t enough to keep demons away for long, and that Melinda and Henry’s escape was often quite narrow. She definitely didn’t mention that the last time they’d done so had been less than a month ago.

Melinda set to work measuring lavender while Piper ground rosemary buds into a mortar. Occasionally, Phoebe would call out a question or suggest a demon. While the potion simmered, Melinda surveyed the room. Her mother and Aunt were concentrating on their respective tasks and Pru was sketching on a piece of paper. From Melinda’s vantage point, it looked like a fairly decent recollection of Mark’s ghoulish grin.

They’d just barely collected enough ingredients when Chris orbed in. He stayed only long enough to take crystals and instructions for the other tests that would help narrow the problem down.

“Lacie and Olivia aren’t leaving him alone, obviously, but I’ll do what I can.”

Melinda stuffed a sack of apples into his hands as well as a container of laurel leaves into his arms. Piper gave him an infusion she thought might bring Mark’s temperature down, and Phoebe even pulled out a pair of pink, heart-shaped sunglasses she swore had been enchanted to detect evil. Chris stared at the last item dubiously, and when he orbed away, the glasses were conveniently forgotten on an end table out of Phoebe’s eyesight.

The four witches looked at each other for a moment as the orbs of Chris’ departure dispersed. Then, the real research began.

Chapter Text

Chris III

Chris had heard that war made friends fast. He wouldn’t consider his current predicament a war, certainly, but adversity had to count for something. He knew more now about Lacie than he had learned during their date and wouldn’t have even known Olivia.

While the earlier encounter with Olivia had given Chris the impression that she didn’t handle emergency well, the last five hours had changed his opinion. Oliva hadn’t handled the initial trouble well, but once she’d adapted to the new status quo, Chris found her a sturdy presence. She defaulted to normal whenever possible, cooking a warm meal, cleaning up after herself, and even cracking open a novel with dancing figures on the cover. Chris guessed that much of the apartment’s décor was her influence, with vibrant jewel tones, soft furniture, and mahogany bookshelves stacked three columns high with paperbacks. In many ways, she reminded Chris of Piper.

Lacie handled things differently. She chatted constantly, sometimes switching topics three times in a single breath. She saw silence as a challenge and approached it with the training of her job, methodical and attentive. When she ran out of theories and updates on Mark’s condition, she started telling stories from her childhood: how she broke her leg when she was six climbing trees, the death of her favourite grandmother at thirteen, her first kiss at fifteen, and graduating early at seventeen. She talked up Mark as well, as if Chris were judge on his well-being, what his job meant to him, what he wanted to accomplish in the future, and the volunteer work he did on the weekends. And, then, when that ran its course, she returned to Mark’s condition.

Still, she held herself together and kept an upbeat attitude going as the hours progressed and her brother failed to waken. She took his temperature every twenty minutes and stood vigil whenever the temperature rose too high, a cool cloth pressed to his forehead and her cell phone out, ready to call in an emergency.

Such was the position Chris found her in now. Chris couldn’t blame her. Mark’s skin glistened in the lamplight, damp with sweat and under a pallor. Mark whimpered occasionally, perhaps once an hour, but otherwise was motionless. Even his breath sounded haggard, and Chris hadn’t wanted to bring it up, but he thought it smelled faintly of smoke.

“How is he?” Chris asked, passing her a cup of coffee.

Lacie didn’t take her eyes from Mark’s form. “His temp’s up again.”

Olivia appeared at the doorway. “What does that mean?”

“Half a degree more and we take him to the hospital.”

Olivia stared at Lacie, and then at Mark. She nodded, and took several steps forward to sit quietly on the bed, next to the prone form of her husband. Her hand grasped Mark’s.

Chris shifted, uncomfortable. It was not his place to offer medical advice. It was barely his place to still be here, but this wasn’t a normal situation, and leaving now could mean Mark’s death. Even worse, if the problem was possession, the demonic entity might just jump to a new host.

The Halliwells still didn’t know what was wrong with Mark. Chris had, covertly, placed the crystals around the room and had even convinced a very skeptical Lacie to allow the apples around his bed (the winning comment being that as Chris wouldn’t interfere with the actual medicine Lacie dealt with, a few apples and leaves weren’t going to hurt). He’d drawn red blood from Mark’s hand with a single pinprick and a quick spell to reveal a shape changer had caused only a short burst of hot air. The rest of Chris’ family was researching across the Heavens, Magic School, and in the Manor. Chris just watched.

“I don’t understand how Mark was running so fast,” Olivia commented, finally, still holding Mark’s hand. “I’ve gone jogging with him, we’ve raced, and I almost won. He’s not a speedy runner.”

Lacie shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s sick. With this temperature, he should barely be able to walk!” She turned to Chris. “And you! He kicked you, like fifteen feet, at least. How… how is that possible?”

Chris’ mind stalled. “I don’t think it was that far,” he said, eventually.

“You flew through the air! I saw it!”

“He was in a rage,” muttered Olivia, heartbroken. “Angry and out of it. He didn’t seem like Mark. Lacie, do you have any idea what’s wrong with him?”

Chris watched Lacie’s mind work. Judging by her expression, she didn’t like her conclusion. Eventually, she supplied her hypothesis. “If I didn’t know Mark, and he was just a man who appeared in my rounds, with the sudden increase in strength combined with the impulsive rage, my first thought would be steroid abuse.”

Olivia immediately sat up and whirled towards Lacie. “Mark doesn’t use steroids. He doesn’t even go to the gym!”

Lacie held up both hands, as if Olivia’s words were physical pressure. “I know,” she said placatingly. “That’s just the first impression. But, Olivia, it’s going to be difficult to convince a doctor steroids aren’t the problem.”

Olivia released Mark’s hand to massage her temples. “Fine,” she conceded. “What else could it be?”

Lacie rattled off the symptoms and what could cause them, but Chris ignored the spiel for his phone. Melinda was keeping him up-to-date with their research. Her last text read: Mom, Aunts pretty sure he’s possessed. Still working on it. Then, as Lacie explained how certain medications could mix with catastrophic results, another text came in.

“Still holding? We think it might be phantasms. Come back.” It read.

Chris released a breath. He didn’t hope, exactly, that they were onto the correct track, but he did wish for Lacie and Olivia’s sake that his family had finally found the answer. Getting out of the apartment was simple, volunteering for a pharmacy run gave him the time needed with minimum fuss. Lacie seemed to doubt herself at that moment. She insisted, in a long, run-on sentence, that she appreciated Chris’ help but he didn’t need to stay the night. Chris assured them both that he was invested and wanted to help, and then faked a departure. Outside the door, with no one else in sight, Chris orbed back to the Manor.

The first thing he registered as his body reformed was the arguing. At first, he couldn’t tell voices apart, but as he solidified, he recognized the vocal resonances of his mother and Aunt Phoebe.

“A ghost would have revealed itself by now, Phoebe,” iterated Piper with profuse use of arm gestures.

Animated, Phoebe practically hopped on her feet. “Well, it’s certainly not the mummies again!”

On the couch, sitting next to each other and watching their mothers argue, were Melinda and Pru. Melinda leaned one elbow on the arm rest and rested her head atop a curled fist, eyes flickering between each speaker. Next to her, Pru took notes. Chris eyed the paper. It mostly consisted of strikethroughs.

“I thought you said you had something?” Chris called out loudly.

Piper and Phoebe jumped. Piper called out his name in alarm and Phoebe clutched a hand to her heart. Their daughters’ reactions were more muted. They waved and smiled awkwardly.

Piper pointed to a vial of clear potion. “That’s a dispossessing potion we’ve used a lot, but we’d usually weaken the demon or spirit first.”

Chris swiped up the potion. He didn’t have a bag with him and didn’t want to risk crushing the vial in his pants pocket, so he kept it securing in his hand.

“There’s also a spell we used on your mother once,” contributed Phoebe, passing him a slip of paper. “It required we stab her in the heart first.”

“I’m not killing Mark,” Chris refuted, refusing even to consider it.

“Of course not!” Phoebe rushed to proclaim. “The spell alone is worth a shot, however.”

With the reassurance that he didn’t need to actually hurt his innocent, Chris read the spell. He scowled.

“It was used against a life essence, obviously,” explained Phoebe.

“The problem is that we don’t know exactly what is possessing Mark,” summarized Pru.

Chris scowl deepened. “I know,” he said, allowing his irritation to show.

“Right, so, spells and potions are kind of useless without knowing the what.”

“Mel said you thought it might be phantasms?”

Piper stepped forward and lifted a hand to Chris’ shoulder. “We thought because Mark hasn’t been active since you took him down, it’s probably not a demon. Coop sensed a deep anger and a foreign presence. Phantasms can possess at will. They’re not known for anger, particularly, but they can make their hosts do terrible things.”

“Daryll was almost executed,” said Phoebe somberly.

Piper held up a thin wand with a clear quartz at its tip. She held it out for Chris to take. “If it’s a phantasm, this should suck it up.”

With the hand holding the spell, Chris grabbed the wand, and felt sure enough in its durability to store it in his back pocket.

Before he left again, he made sure to grab a bottle of advil, to at least keep up his pretense. He knocked on Olivia and Mark’s door and then let himself inside. A cry met him instead.

Chris ran to the bedroom to witness Mark surge into a sitting position. His hand flashed out to grip Lacie’s, in the process of replacing the cloth on Mark’s forehead. As Chris ran forward, Mark’s knuckles whitened, and Lacie cried out in pain and tried to pull herself away.

Chris threw up his potion-clutching hand, intending to magically pry Mark’s hand off Lacie’s wrist, but before his magic could activate, the crystal hidden under the bed glowed. Mark’s body jolted like a shock passed through him. From Chris position, he could see the magical barrier activate twice more. Then, Mark fell back to the bed, motionless once more.

Dumping his tools on the bed, Chris joined Olivia in racing to Lacie’s side. Tears gathered in Lacie’s eye and began to spill as Chris approached. She held her wrist close to her chest.

“What happened?” Chris asked, unable to keep himself from yelling.

Olivia answered. “He woke up while you were gone, complaining of the heat. When Lacie tried to help him, he… “

Chris gently urged Lacie to uncurl her uninjured hand. Beneath were four welts, already reddening like a burn. Lacie allowed her wrist to sit exposed for only a few seconds before standing up and heading out the door. In the dead silence following her departure, Chris heard the bathroom light flick on and Lacie rummage through the cabinet, though when she returned, he couldn’t tell what she’d done.

Before Lacie took her seat, she pulled it two feet away from the bed.

“What’s wrong with you?” Olivia whispered to the unmoving form of her husband.

Chris glanced at the supplies on the bed, determined to find out.

Chapter Text

Melinda IV

There was a foot in her face. Melinda blinked until her eyes focused and there was the strange, grey blob barely an inch from her face. She scowled, partly in disgust and partly in confusion, and traced the sock to a pair of crinkled dress pants to a linen shirt, to her brother’s slack face, half pressed into the couch cushion. Now, at least, she figured out the why. Wyatt had obviously needed to stretch his legs sometime after she’d already dozed off (or she would have forcibly removed the toe from her nostril), and had been too lazy to switch to an unoccupied couch.

Melinda did not kick him as she might have done a decade earlier, partly because one of her legs had nestled in the unfathomable depths of the couch back, and the other was trapped underneath the person she wanted to kick. Instead, she hefted Wyatt’s foot via the pant leg and let it fall to the floor where she couldn’t see or smell it.

Jostled, Wyatt shifted deeper into his side of the couch, but the equilibrium of his body was too far to control and he jolted awake just in time to keep himself from tumbling from his perch.

“Your manspreading is out of control,” Melinda mumbled, victorious, with her eyes shut. Her victory faded as a chill crept over her left shoulder, now exposed to the crisp fall, morning air. The chill only increased when Wyatt rose into a seated position. Now, her entire left side was cold.

With a groan, she hauled herself up and immediately slammed her eyes shut. Light assaulted her from all sides, gleaming through the many sun room windows. She wanted to order someone to shut the sun off and she wanted to know whose genius idea it had been to hold last night’s cram session in the sun room, but goosebumps raising on her arms brought her attention back to the temperature.

She spied the culprit after a cursory glance through one, scrunched eye. “Who opened a window?” she complained. The noise, normally lost in the hustle of the day, became a slam this early in the morning.

“I did,” said someone behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to recognize the speaker, however. She heard him every morning. Henry uncrossed his arms and kicked the ottoman away from his chair. “It was hot.”

“Now it’s cold,” Melinda said needlessly, transferring her weight from one foot to the next so both of them didn’t have to bear the cold, wooden floor. In a plain green camisole and black shorts, she was not dressed for a sun room breakfast so she darted for the cushions already warmed from her body heat. It wasn’t enough.

Wyatt threw her an oversized grey hoodie and Melinda immediately forgave him for his foot incursion.

“What time is it?” asked Pru, somehow graceful after spending her night curled up in a lounge chair like a cat. She adjusted her blouse to presentable condition and slipped on the long-sleeved cardigan she’d used for a pillow.

“Six,” answered Wyatt. “I’ll make coffee.” He plodded away.

Melinda should have been able to weather the early morning wake up call. For years, her day had begun even earlier, in order to get to the café by six-thirty. In a matter of weeks, the rhythm of three years had crumbled to dust. Dimly, she realized that soon she’d be back to seeing sunrise, though at the end of her day.

“Gross,” Melinda mumbled to herself, burrowing further into the hoodie. Wanting to leave apprehension behind, she jumped to her feet, found an empty spot of floor, and ran through a series of stretches. Her muscles, tight from twelve hours (and counting) of disuse protested the movement, and only relaxed after she held the position for a minute or, as was the case for her right hamstring, longer.

Henry watched her, one eye raised, but not visibly surprised. He had become as adjusted to her morning routine as she had his.

So had Pru, who paid Melinda’s stretching no mind. She pulled her phone out and fired off a few texts, audible in their distinctive bloops. Probably to Mike, Melinda figured.

Feeling better, Melinda flopped back down to her seat. Wyatt returned with a carafe of coffee, mugs, cream, and sugar on a tray. There wasn’t, however, any free place to put it. The coffee table and end tables pulled from the nearest rooms in the house were all full of books, tomes, scrolls, and scraps of paper. Any organizational system they (they, meaning Wyatt and Pru) set up for their research session had broken down throughout the night, stack by stack. Melinda had no idea anymore which book came from the Attic, which from Magic School, and which had been borrowed from a fellow witch. Even worse, as she glanced over the titles in quick succession, she realized she couldn’t remember which ones she’d already checked.

Eventually, Wyatt carefully sat the tray directly on the ground, and the four witches gathered around it. As they poured coffee into mugs and added any fixings, the conversation returned to their mission.

“Chris said the wand did nothing, right? Didn’t even react?” asked Henry, his face screwing together in an attempt to recall details through the haze of sleep.

“Right,” confirmed Pru. She pointed to three books stacked on the table closest to the dining room. “Which is why we put all the books on ghosts over there.” She frowned and then moved her finger to a different stack to Wyatt’s right. “Or maybe those are ghosts and the other ones are spirits we ruled out based on geography.”

Melinda didn’t bother to give her opinion on the matter. Pru and Wyatt had their own system, and Mel and Henry merely tried not to screw it up too much. Any input she gave at this point would just mix Pru up further.

With a frustrated sigh, Pru pulled her notebook onto her laps and spent the next few minutes in silence, reading her notes.

“This is taking too long,” Wyatt said sombrely. “An innocent is suffering and getting worse by the hour. I don’t like not knowing what’s wrong, but we need to act soon.”

Melinda gaped at her brother.

Wyatt took the shocked looks in stride. “Look, our moms clearly don’t want us to walk into the unknown, because knowledge is safer. They just forget that we’re adults, and this is our decision to make.”

“Are you suggesting we go rogue?” asked Melinda, flashing him a sly grin. Where had this brother been during her teens?

Pru set her notebook down. “Not rogue,” she said, exchanging a look with Wyatt. “But rogue-adjacent.”

Henry grinned. “Welcome to the Tribe of Time Outs. We meet Tuesdays and offer discounted seminars on how to deal with The Disappointed Face.”

“I know The Disappointed Face, thank you very much.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Henry shot back with a snap of his fingers. “Good kids get disappointed. Bad kids get furious.”

Pru rolled her eyes. Wyatt scooted forward and leaned closer. “I know you were spooked by Turik,” he said sincerely. Melinda suspected that in anyone but Wyatt, the words would sound considerably more patronizing, but Wyatt had an inherent earnestness that softened the blow. “I would have been too. But we can’t learn from our mistakes from the back seat.”

Melinda joined her brother and male cousin in their urging. “New week, new witch.” Pru stared them each in the eye. Melinda resisted the impulse to stick out her tongue.

Pru’s brows knit together. She glanced at her notebook again, quiet in thought. Then, as if she had no doubt, she stated, “Wyatt’s right that we need to act. I do think, though, we should look a little longer.”

“Thirty minutes?” Wyatt suggested, and Pru nodded.

“Half an hour in the books and then we’re off to the street? Sounds good to me.” Melinda, admittedly, would have been fine to abandon research last night, but now was better than never.

“Heat and possession,” muttered Henry, reaching for the nearest book.

Wyatt followed. “The eclipse too. The Elders couldn’t see down. Who knows what happened without their knowing?”

Pru flipped pages at a quick pace. “A sinister presence that is able to vanish at will.”

Melinda stared at the page, open on her lap, not sure it could be that simple. She stared a moment longer, straddling the line between feeling like an idiot and feeling like a genius, all for looking up fire in the index.

“Afarit,” Melinda read, out loud. She heard her brother and cousins stop their own searching.

“What?”

“Afarit,” Melinda repeated. “An ancient fire spirit that finds passage to our realm during an eclipse through the spilled blood of a murder victim.” She turned the book around so the was visible and then plopped it in the middle of their circle.  “Mark was hot,” she explained.

Pru leaned forward and angled the book to read further. There wasn’t much else in the section, just a paragraph and a half next to a drawing of an eclipsing sun. 

“It imbues its host with unnatural strength,” Pru read, skipping ahead. “And the victims typically act as if in a rage.”

The four sat in stunned silence for half a minute. Then, Wyatt asked, “Does it say how to get rid of an afarit?”

Pru skimmed the text again. “It says that to prevent an afarit’s arrival, one should hammer a virgin nail into the blood spot.”

“A virgin nail?” Henry asked, holding back laughter.

Pru shrugged. “I guess one that’s never been used before.”

“Well that’s easy enough to find,” said Henry. “And department store has nails. How do we find this blood spill though?”

“Chris said Mark works at crime scenes, right?” theorized Wyatt. “In a city as large as this, it isn’t that big of stretch for someone to be murdered prior to or during the eclipse yesterday.”

“So, we just have to find the crime scene?” said Melinda glibly. “I’m sure the police will just pass that information along.”

“It’s worth a shot,” argued Wyatt.

“I’ll go with you,” volunteered Henry. “I might be able to get a premonition if the cops won’t tell us. Plus, I probably have half a dozen unused nails in my coveralls.”

Pru nodded. “Good. Mel and I will let the others know.”

Henry and Wyatt orbed away, leaving their mugs behind. Pru grabbed the book, stuffed a scrap of paper in to act as a bookmark, and stood. Melinda joined her.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and the two made their way to the stairwell.

Piper spoke before either could. She held out her phone. “That was Chris,” she explained, her voice groggy from sleep. “Mark is gone.”

Chapter Text

Henry II

Henry solidified in the apartment first. Any other occasion, he might have taken the time to wonder if perhaps a whitelighter’s familiarity with their target location had a correlation on their arrival time—as he was sure he and Wyatt had orbed at roughly the same time, if not, then Henry had left after Wyatt, and yet, he beat the older witch by just shy of a second. It might even be worth a race some weekend, just to really test it out. Not now, however. Now was innocent saving time.

Henry allowed Wyatt to get his bearing by himself. There wasn’t exactly a lot to come to grips to, anyway. Henry crossed the hallway in half a dozen steps and made for his work jacket slung over the back of a chair he never used because it was filthy from his jacket. He had collected quite the assortment in the various pockets. A tape measure, chalk for marking boards, used handwarmers from chilly mornings, bits of coiled wire, and the instructions to a contraption Henry couldn’t remember putting together. Finally, his hands grasped one of the plastic containers he figured ought to be there somewhere. Inch-and-a-half roundhead nails. Nothing special.

On impulse, Henry grabbed a second box from his closet, and returned to the living room. When he got there, he couldn’t help but laugh. Wyatt hadn’t moved and his face was paralyzed with horror, though Henry guessed Wyatt considered the plastered smile far more disarming that it actually came across. Wyatt’s eyes darted from the mismatched couch cushions, to the pile of coupons, to the frozen lasagna, now decidedly unfrozen and abandoned yesterday when Paige called. Taking pity on the ever-polite Wyatt, Henry tossed the lasagna in the trash. They both pretended their noses didn’t wrinkle from the stench.

Henry held up both the nails for Wyatt’s inspection. “Good thinking,” said Wyatt, still faking a smile. “Better to have a backup than not.”

Henry shrugged. “It’s not like I’m make a sacrifice here. They practically give away whole crates where I work. I’m guessing getting rid of an afarit was a lot harder in the days before mass production.”

Part of Henry wanted to offer Wyatt tea, to watch the man ultimately crumble under his congeniality. Henry wanted to know how long Wyatt would subject himself to discomfort if it meant time with his family. Still, Henry figured Wyatt could last an hour before offering to buy a new couch. So, he took pity on Wyatt.

Or, rather, he intended to take pity on Wyatt, but as Henry moved to speak, he realized he was missing crucial information.

“Where are we going?” he asked Wyatt. “How do we find the murder site?”

Wyatt looked just as lost as Henry felt. “Can you get a premonition?”

“Not generally without an item connected to the event, no,” said Henry, flatly. He and Phoebe had both already tried with the sweater of Mark’s that Chris had borrowed. They’d learned that Mark used a citrusy fabric softener that Henry wouldn’t mind finding the name of for himself, but nothing pertinent to the evil entity currently wrecking havoc with Mark, his wife, and his sister’s lives.

Wyatt hummed. “Okay,” he said finally. “First, we’ll scrawl through all the news sites for the area. I’m sure a murder had to have been reported on by now. If there’s more than one, we’ll narrow down by cause of death and location. If we have to, we’ll go to them all. If there isn’t anything in the news, then I suppose we’ll have to check with all the local morgues, although who knows how long that will take.”

Henry resisted the urge to laugh again. He proposed, “Or, we find out where Mark works, ask nicely to see some of his stuff, and hope that I get a premonition.”

Wyatt frowned. “Those are both terrible plans.”

“Yes, they are. Why did the two late-comers to the case agree to do the most crucial part in the vanquish?”

“I don’t know, but I’m just desperate enough to go with your plan.”

Henry grinned. “There’s just one more thing we need.” Without explaining, he approached and opened the cabinet closest to the front door, and pulled out an electronic hammer gun. “It’s battery powered,” he told Wyatt proudly.

“Couldn’t we just use a hammer?”

“This will be quicker. Now, ask Chris were Mark works.”

The answer came three minutes later, which, Henry considered, wasn’t a terrible response rate coming from Chris. “The Medical Examiner’s Office,” read Wyatt.

Henry nodded. “Great. Where is that?”

With an answer from their phones, Henry and Wyatt orbed close to the Office. They sat on a bench while they discussed their next stage in the plan.

“They’re not going to let us in with that,” pointed out Wyatt immediately, indicating the hammer gun. With a discrete wave of his hand, the machine orbed away. For a reason Henry couldn’t fathom, he felt mildly insulted and suppressed a frown.

“Now what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, screw it,” declared Henry, standing up. “Let’s just go for it. Come on.”

He left no opportunity for Wyatt to argue, so the older witch was forced along, no doubt already panicking.

“If we look confident, no one will question us,” Henry told Wyatt sagely, and entered the glass doors.

“How can I help you?” asked the woman behind the desk.

“We’re looking for the Medical Examiner’s Office,” said Henry boldly.

The woman, a hair over middle-aged and smarter than either of them, gave the two men a once over. “Do you have ID on you?”

Henry did not. He looked over to Wyatt, who shook his head.

Five minutes later, they returned with their wallets in hand. Now close enough to read her name, the pair traded glances while Janet typed into her computer.

“What’s the purpose of your visit?” asked Janet without looking away from the screen.

Henry knew the question was coming, but his brain had yet to throw any coherent lie together. Unfortunately, this left Wyatt holding the ball.

“We’re med students,” said Wyatt in one rushed breath. “Looking at job opportunities, you know.”

“Did you schedule an appointment?”

“No, we did not,” was Wyatt’s immediate reply, deflated.

“We only wanted to talk to some of the staff,” lied Henry, now tied to the story whether he liked it or not.

Janet frowned. “The Medical Examiner’s Office handles forensic files for the entire city. I can’t guarantee they can take the time from their duties to answer questions.” Henry had to give her points for maintaining her professionalism, even if she sounded like her opinion of them was dropping with every word they spoke.

“Some of the lower staff,” Henry flubbed. “Like, interns, and stuff?”

Wyatt just smiled, the cordial grin that said, “If you can see my teeth, then you can’t see how uncomfortable I am”.

“Please?” Wyatt asked. “It’s been my dream since I was a kid to be a … medical examiner.”

Janet stared at them for a long moment, then typed quickly on her keyboard. Papers printed from a printer to her left, and Henry was sure they were about to be blacklisted from every municipal building in the city. Instead, she slotted a green badge into two lanyards and handed them over. “These will get you onto the first level only. Some of the interns work there.”

She stared at them as they walked away.

“I can’t believe that worked,” whispered Wyatt once they were out of earshot. He sounded pained and relieved all at once.

Henry couldn’t either, but one look at Wyatt’s white face told Henry that he needed to lie some more. “We totally had that handled.”

Overhead signs told them where to go, and they followed them at a quick pace. Their destination was sparsely populated. Henry tried to seem nonchalant as he strolled to an open computer and sat down. Thankfully, Wyatt said nothing to arouse suspicion. Before the owner of the computer station could return, Henry pulled up the employee directory. There were six Marks in total, but thanks to modern lifestyle, each profile had ancillary information Henry could use to identify the correct Mark. (Because, he realized, staring at the names, he didn’t know Mark’s last name and had no idea what he looked like). One was an intern, two appeared too old for Chris to have dated a sister, one was currently on vacation, and the other worked in IT. Henry pulled up the last file. Mark Murrow, 34, Forensic Morgue Technician, Cubicle 6, Floor 3.

A door closing startled Henry. He knocked over a cup of pens and hurriedly closed the directory.

“I need you to get me one of their badges,” Henry muttered to Wyatt, pointing his head to one of the interns. “His office is on the third floor.”

Wyatt’s face paled further. He swallowed, then turned around to face the corner. Henry caught a brief flash of blue, contained around Wyatt’s hands. Wyatt turned back and stuffed the badge into Henry’s grasp.

“Hurry,” Wyatt whispered. “I don’t want to get her in trouble.”

Henry didn’t bother to reply. He darted for the elevator, swiping the badge as fast as he could in case anyone else was watching. The elevator wasn’t empty, but those inside barely gave him a cursory glance. At the third floor, he left without a word and began his search for Cubicle 6. They weren’t labelled.

He darted between desks, cursing the top of his head that stuck out over the top of the dividers. At least he could rule out the compartments already occupied. His palms were slick from sweat and he was pretty sure that if he had to speak at the moment, he would just babble nonsense instead. Across from a cubicle decorated with sunflowers, Henry spotted a photo of a woman and Mark resting atop an organized desk. Relieved, Henry sighed.

When no one was looking, Henry sat down in Mark’s seat and set about touching everything. His fingers ghosted over the keyboard, a coffee mug, a set of unused slides, a folder labeled “Closed”, and even the photo on his desk. He pulled open the drawer and rummaged through knickknacks, and only discovered that Mark like chocolate and peanut butter. Forcing the groan back down his throat, Henry turned his gaze back to the computer, wondering what the chances of Mark’s files not being hidden behind a password.

Then, Henry’s fingers touched a notepad, and he was pulled into a vision.

Mark hefted one end of the stretcher into a waiting ambulance, then ensured that the body bag remained securely zipped before sharing a solemn nod to EMT. The doors of the ambulance slammed shut and Mark headed back inside, back to where he was needed.

The blood stain made a stark contrast against the rug. He studied the area, looking for any missed clues. He noted blood splatter and made mental notes with which he could compare against his superior’s later.

Then, there was a moment of intense heat. Mark caught a flash of light from the blood stain and missed a demonic grin looking back.

Henry breathed slowly, allowing the well of emotions that always accompanied a premonition to settle. He examined his fingers and found an address written just above. Grimly, he smiled, took a photo of the address, and left. This time, he took the stairs, and emerged on the first floor only slightly winded.

Wyatt’s countenance had not improved. Sometime since Henry’s departure, he’d been drawn into a conversation, and from the look of his face, he was barely making it through.

Henry caught the tail end of it as he approached. “And then, third year of medical school,” Wyatt babbled, seemingly stringing together sentence after sentence. The intern cast a grateful look at Henry, as did Wyatt, their simultaneous desire for Wyatt to stop talking evident on their faces.

“I think you dropped this,” Henry told the intern, pressing the badge into her hand. She took the statement as an exit from the conversation and skittered away.

“Let’s go,” muttered Henry, and pulled Wyatt after him. They followed the signs back to the entrance and practically threw the visitor badges on Janet’s desk.

Outside, Henry allowed himself a deep breath. Wyatt followed suit. Henry found a secluded corner and orbed him and his cousin to the address.

They reappeared inside the house. Luckily, there was no indication of another occupant, but Henry tried to keep his footsteps as light as possible anyway.

“They’ve already collected evidence,” he told Wyatt, “So we should be able to touch anything.” Still, they kept their hands to themselves.

Finding the bloodstain wasn’t difficult, merely a matter of following the general layout of the house until it was there in front of them.

“I hope they collected everything they need,” said Wyatt, orbing the hammer gun into his hand and passing it to Henry. “Because this is going to look very confusing to outsiders.”

Henry took the gun and reaffirmed its weight in his hand. It felt solid and comfortable. He loaded fresh nails into the gun and pressed it to the stain. Wyatt nodded once and Henry pressed the trigger. The gun thunked, pressing its projectile into the carpet. Henry pulled back and checked his work. The nail rested securely in the centre of the dried, red pool. He gave an experimental press to the oval head, and the nail remained firm. He stood up.

“Let’s get out of here,” he told Wyatt, and together, they orbed away.

Chapter Text

Chris IV

The Charmed Ones hadn’t faced an afarit before. It had taken them several iterations to accept the presence as an afarit, which in Chris’ opinion, was far too slow. He, personally, had orbed in, seen the picture in the book and jumped on board right away. Conversely, they wouldn’t be able to tell Mark from the next random man to walk past the Manor, so Chris felt he was justified in his confidence.

They were currently discussing the possibility of acquiring flame resistant gear. Chris gravitated towards Melinda and Pru.

It wasn’t as though speed wasn’t needed. Mark was out there, running amok through the city and Lacie and Olivia were ignorant as to Mark’s predicament. If they found him first, without the backup of the Halliwells, they would die, and Chris wouldn’t allow that to happen.

Melinda returned from her jaunt to the attic, all the laurel the witches possessed bunched in her hand. It made a flimsy bouquet. She haphazardly divided the pile into three and pressed one section into Chris and Pru’s hands.

It turned out, Chris discovered, that laurel made an effective binding agent for an afarit, and when Lacie, well-meaning but clueless, discovered and threw out one of the apples Chris had hidden throughout the apartment bedroom, breaking the protective circle that was the only thing keeping the fire spirit buried in Mark’s conscience. It wasn’t exactly a good situation for Mark. His temperature had just hit the point where Lacie demanded he be taken to the hospital and Olivia could no longer hold her back. The man clearly suffered playing host to a demonic entity. However, Mark certainly hadn’t been made better by leaping out the bed, throwing his wife and Chris across the room and dragging Lacie through the apartment before finally dropping her at the threshold and putting his hand through the door rather than use the doorknob.  He wasn’t better loose in the city, physically stronger and faster than any human could hope to compare, suffering under a psychotic rage, and lacking any means to control his own body. Olivia and Lacie weren’t any better for it either.

Chris cursed. He ignored his mother and aunts calling Fire Departments from the kitchen. In the dining room, he, Melinda, and Pru huddled together.

“Five minutes,” he swore. “We take five minutes. Each of us comes up with a way to find Mark and we go after him. No more waiting.”

Melinda nodded immediately, but doubt clouded Pru’s features. “Wyatt and Henry went looking for the portal.”

“We don’t know how long that will take,” Chris rebutted instantly. “Five minutes for a plan, and then we go for it.”

They separated for the allotted time. Chris saw Pru head upstairs, followed by Melinda, presumably heading for the Attic. They returned separately. Chris remained at the dining room table, thinking. He didn’t need to call when the time ran out. As soon as he stood up, Melinda was at his side and Pru joined them of her own accord.

“Well?” asked Chris.

Melinda jumped right into it. She held up a map of the city and a scrying crystal. The map was outdated by a decade, but that fact shouldn’t matter too much. They just needed a map of the space, not what buildings were where. That was, if scrying was a viable option. Chris had his doubts.

“Scrying won’t work without something to focus on. Mark’s sweater didn’t work.”

Dauntless, Melinda held up her other hand, revealing the lighter they used in the fireplace. “The afarit is a being of fire, right?” She clicked the lighter to life. “Then we’ll use fire to find fire.”

There wasn’t time to argue, and frankly, they were all sick of discourse. He turned to Pru expectantly.

She waved a small piece of paper. “It’s a waste of time tracking him through the city. What if we bring Mark to us instead?”

Releasing a long breath, Chris’ mind worked fast. “We’ll use both of those. Let’s go.”

Melinda’s hand flashed out and grabbed his elbow. “Wait—what about your idea?”

“I couldn’t come up with anything. Come on.”

He heard two scoffs behind him and then footsteps following. At the other end of the table, Melinda threw down the map. Then, she passed the lighter and crystal to Chris. “You had the most experience with it. You should do it,” she explained.

Chris didn’t bother to hide his doubt. It was a stupid idea, but seeing as Chris hadn’t been able to think of one at all, he supposed he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He thought of the two women scouring the city, heartbroken and terrified, and shoved those doubts aside. He clicked the lighter and let the flame build to its strongest before beginning the scry. The crystal picked up his motion and began swirling on its own in smooth circles. He passed over the outskirts and angled inward. The crystal kept twirling.

Then, somehow, over Mission Hill, it stopped. Even Melinda looked shocked.

“I don’t think it can teleport with its host,” Chris theorized. “We’ll orb there and use Pru’s spell to herd him.”

“Where?” asked Pru.

“Wyatt’s apartment is closest, but we’d be safest to bring him back to the Manor.”

Melinda frowned. “That’s a lot of ground to cover, and a lot of potential witnesses—or hostages.”

“We’ll manage,” assured Chris, not sure if he was being honest but needing to get something done.

Melinda relented. Pru needed another minute to convince.

“We’re going after the afarit!” Pru suddenly called out towards the kitchen. Melinda pulled the map into her arms with a great sweep and then they both grabbed one of his arms. Chris heard a confused “What?” from one of the Charmed Ones, but before they could investigate, Chris had already orbed the search team away.

They reformed behind an outlying garden shed in a nice, clean neighborhood. Chris ignored his mother’s magical call currently ringing in his head. The three witches made their way to the better vantage point on the street.

It was quiet. A few go-getters had started yard work already, but Chris guessed most people were enjoying the slow pace of a Sunday morning. Hopefully everyone savoured that second cup of coffee before heading out for the day. Nothing gave the impression that an enraged Hulk of a man was currently rampaging through people’s front yards. He couldn’t hear screams, and saw no trails of black smoke rising in the surrounding sky that might give any indication that they were in the right area. Still, Chris trusted in the scry. Mark was here. They just had to draw him out.

Pru pointed to a small playground just north of their position. It sat at the corner of a street and led into a side street. Importantly, it was also currently unoccupied. “That looks like the safest path.”

They made their way to the playground and gathered around a toddler-sized slide. Pru pulled out the spell from her pocket and began to read.

Just as Chris decided to trust in the crystal, he waited for the spell to take effect, even when the seconds became minutes. ‘It’s travelling by foot,’ he told himself. After the first minute of waiting, Melinda began walking the perimeter. Pru moved climbed the playground equipment to the highest point at a slide on the other end of the park. Like at the manor, Chris remained, too full of conflicting emotions to do anything but scan his surroundings like a nervous tick.

They were risking revealing magic in a pretty serious way. He had no way to tell how many people might be looking out their windows at the moment, wondering what the three young adults were doing in a children’s park without any kids. Someone could come out of their house at any minute, or walk down the alley, and there would be no hiding the witches’ activities. The best he could hope for was the assumption of an illegal film set or a marketing stunt. They’d just have to do their best—in the quickest manner possible—and hope it was enough.

“There!” Pru said eventually, pointing to the west. Melinda jogged over and joined Chris in peering at the approaching figure.

As Mark approached, Melinda ducked behind a kids’ rock wall. Chris allowed himself to be the bait. Mark’s body wasn’t holding up well. The demon walked with a gait that appeared out of whack for the body it inhabited and the overall effect was a slight hitch in the left leg. Sweat stains were visible through the light grey material of Mark’s shirt, growing large enough to almost entirely engulf the t-shirt. Veins pulsed on his forehead and his face had taken a red tone Chris knew better than to call a blush.

Mark’s features drew into a snarl and saliva dripped from his mouth like a rapid animal. Involuntarily, Chris backed away two paces. Mark surged forward.

Melinda met him with a tackle around the waist, but unlike previously, Mark didn’t collapse on the ground. They both hit the gravel wriggling like worms. Too late, Chris realized his sister wasn’t going for a grapple, she was trying to escape.

Melinda cried out in pain when Mark grabbed her shoulder. Chris threw out a hand and tried to push Mark away. He managed to fling Mark’s body perhaps twenty feet away, and Melinda scrambled behind her brother.

Chris heard Pru jump down from her perch and run for the two of them. Behind Chris, Melinda panted and held her left arm close to her chest.

With a primal scream, Mark ripped a plank off a bench and held it like a baseball bat.

“Run,” he ordered, panicked, taking off down the alley. Melinda and Pru’s footsteps pounded behind him, and not much further beyond them, the cackling Mark.

At the front, Chris only heard a thud and another cry of pain. Still running, he whipped his head around to see Pru on the ground, her legs tangled around the bench plank. Melinda doubled back and flung herself under Pru’s arms to help her cousin stand. Together, they stumbled forward, looking more like drunken college students than women escaping a menace. Pru clearly had difficulty putting weight on her injured leg, and with his unnatural speed, Mark was gaining on them.

Chris flung his hand out again, heedless of any eyes that might be watching. Mark flew through the air again, but distressingly, not as far as Chris hoped. To give Mel and Pru more time, Chris brought his hand down and forced Mark prone. Mark fought Chris’ power at every step, almost as if he’d been acting against witches his entire life.

Melinda and Pru finally stepped in line with Chris. Pru seemed to have recovered, mostly standing on her own weight, so Chris took off again. It was now clear that their plan, such as it was, to corral Mark to the Manor was not going to work. He was simply too fast. Chris or Pru would have to transport them all magically, but that required a safe spot to do flashy magic. Telekinesis was one thing. Bright blue or pink lights were another.

A couple of turns and two blocks down and Chris was winded, huffing his breaths and unable to ignore the ache in his thighs (how could he, it was a stab every step). Pru’s difficulties were evident too. Her footsteps were off kilter and she was now breathing as hard as Chris. Melinda, however, laughed at them both.

“Come on, couch potatoes,” she teased from ahead. Even more insulting, she’d slowed down to speak.

One more turn and half a block more, and Chris decided unilaterally that they’d reached a safe enough spot. The fences here were taller, there were garages and thick trees to afford even more privacy (meant for the homeowners use, but it worked both ways too). He pulled to a stop, only just catching himself from tripping over his own feet as they sluggishly complied with the order. Pru stopped five feet short and immediately bent at the waist, hands on her thighs. Chris had to call Melinda back in a wheezing breath even he had a hard time understanding.

“I’ll orb—or Pru can beam—but running isn’t going to work,” he panted, slowly, focusing on one word at a time. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the neighbourhood and he swore he tasted blood with every inhale.

“Not with that attitude it won’t,” Melinda muttered dryly, perfectly capable of full sentences. Then, she turned to Pru. “How’s your leg?”

Pru shifted her weight onto her right leg and rolled up the pant leg on her left. Already, the skin above her knee was purple in a great splotch that Chris winced at. “He just threw that board at me.”

“We sent both healers on a mission together,” Chris realized with a groan.

“It’s fine,” Pru said, waving off the offer to call either Wyatt or Henry. “Let’s just get back to the Manor.”

Melinda hummed and took in her surroundings. Chris did the same. They were in a quiet neighborhood no different to the last. And, just like before, there was no sign of Mark’s presence.

“He’s around,” Chris stated. “I’m sure of it. And coming for us.”

“Are you sure he’s not even a little demon? It would make things simpler if I could just punch him,” retorted Melinda, crossing her arms.

Chris wanted to refute immediately, but he wasn’t sure how. Meanwhile, Melinda rattled off all the ways she could defuse the situation while Pru shot each suggestion down.

“We just need to orb,” said Chris finally.

“That means one of you need to get the drop on him,” Melinda was quick to point out. She looked back and forth. “Are we covered here if it comes to using my power?”

Chris nodded. Pru looked doubtful, but didn’t refute him directly.

They split between the street sides and waited. Pru gave it perhaps thirty seconds before pulling out her spell and reading it once more. Soon, the sound of gravel crunching announced an arrival.

But not the one they were expecting.

“Lacie?” asked Chris, eyes wide and incredulous. “What are you doing here?”

Lacie stared back at him in equal confusion. She held up her phone, but Chris couldn’t see with the light refracting on the screen. “I’m tracking Mark’s phone. You said you were going to talk to your uncle about organizing an official search. I didn’t hear back from you.”

Chris couldn’t blame her for the accusation in her voice. All the evidence she needed was right in front of her eyes; Chris was definitely not speaking to his Uncle Henry but instead loitering outside random backyards while Lacie’s brother suffered from a mental break. “He suggested we try a smaller scale one first,” he explained feebly, half lying and telling her what he could.

Melinda and Pru waved from across the alley. The bruise on Mel’s exposed shoulder from when Mark grabbed her at the park brought reality crashing back down. Chris turned to Lacie. He had to get her away, at least until Mark was apprehended.

From beyond Lacie’s shoulder, Mark stalked towards them. Chris swore and dragged Lacie to one side. “Is Olivia here too?” he hissed, as quickly as he could.

Lacie moved to question Chris’ actions, but he dragged her back down. “Is she?” he repeated.

She shook her head. “She stayed at the apartment in case he came back.”

At least he only had one innocent to worry about, though the task didn’t seem any easier as Mark approached. Chris couldn’t be sure—it may have been a natural effect of the sunlight against lingering humidity in the air or perhaps just boots kicking up dust—but he thought he saw tendrils of smoke rising from the trail of Mark’s footsteps. What in the hell was Chris going to do?

Lacie broke free from Chris’ grasp when she saw her brother. She called out to him, but must have remembered how their last meeting ended, because she didn’t run forward. As a precaution, Pru darted from her spot to pull Lacie back with her. Chris saw her lips moving but didn’t catch any of the words from the sudden pounding in his ears. Whatever Pru said, it kept Lacie in place, and Chris would have to thank Pru later.

Chris stepped into the middle of the alley, intending to keep Mark’s attention on him. He tried to tell himself that Mark was just another puffed-up jock looking for trouble. He’d been in more than enough bar fights over the years to have his own method of dealing with guys who clearly just wanted a fight. All Chris had to do was make himself seem as big as possible. (Except, of course, Chris would remember hours later over an icepack, all such bar fights ended with he and Grady in a fight anyway, and losing more often than not.)

Mark took the bait. He ran forward and threw a right hook at Chris. Chris’ dodge wasn’t as graceful as he’d like in front of a woman he’d dated, but he did manage to avoid a fist to his face. He did not, however, avoid the left elbow he hadn’t seen coming.

Chris crumped to the ground. He blinked back stars, and even then, his eyes were so unfocused, he couldn’t tell if he was staring at dirt or the sky. The rest of his senses weren’t affected by the attack, so Chris was able to comprehend just how much pain he was in. He tasted iron. Blood flowed freely from his nose into his mouth, coating his tongue and slipping down his throat. He heard the whistle to every inhale that confirmed his nose was broken. He sure as hell felt a lot, in his temple where the elbow impacted, in his neck which absorbed the force of his head swinging to the left, and in his arms, which had gotten scraped in his subsequent fall to the ground.

He pushed himself onto his knees, and then into a wobbly attempt to stand. Cries rang out around him. Melinda grappled with Mark. She must have thrown herself at him when Chris went down. Pru was at Chris’ side, saying something, and Lacie yelled for Mark to stop.

Melinda stumbled back, crumpled over, hands clutching at her stomach. Mark took one step forward, and then slid back five paces. Chris’ confused brain floundered, before remembering that Pru had telekinesis too. Melinda pulled herself straight, flicked her hands, and froze the scene.

Chris immediately allowed himself to relax a little bit. He took his time to come to his feet. Mark was in front of them, heels digging into the gravel and hands outstretched to catch hold of something. Behind them, Lacie crouched with both hands covering her mouth, her face frozen in horror.

“Hurry,” Melinda wheezed. She pointed to the individual houses surrounding them. “Those houses aren’t frozen. That alley and that street aren’t frozen. I don’t even know if this street is completely frozen.”

Chris stumbled forward, but he moved so haphazardly Pru didn’t have to move far to hold his arm. “Stop,” she said, alarmed, and pointed to Mark.

Mark was on fire. Mark, still frozen, was on fire, obviously not frozen. Licks of flame formed four fingers and then an arm, then another. The arms became a torso, and a head of pure flame, then two legs.

Melinda flicked her hands again. The afarit swung its gaze to her—and her alone. “Shit,” she said, eyes wide. She shifted her stance.

The afarit stomped and sparks cracked. The immediate area around its feet burst into flame, perhaps feeding on the remnants of motor oil soaked into the gravel, perhaps magically sourced. The new fire burned bright in a sudden flash, and then was engulfed back into the afarit’s body.

“I should have brought a fire extinguisher,” said Pru, brazenly. “Then again, we already know a few.”

The afarit cackled, or so it might have if it had vocal cords. The sound it emitted was the snap logs of wood made when they finally gave into the destructive power of the flame. It sent another bout of flame snaking towards them on the ground, and as the witches hopped to avoid the heat, the afarit bound back to Mark and stepped into his body.

The freeze broke. Lacie’s sob surrounded them. Pru ran for Mark, probably hoping to grab him before the afarit reacclimatized. This time, Chris was the one to hold her back. Chills crept up the back of his arms and he found himself unable to speak for a moment.

Pru whirled around, an angry retort already slipping through her lips and then, she too, froze in place.

Lacie stood up, no longer looking terrified, horrified, or any of the other emotions a human might encountering evil for the first time. She looked amused.

Chris recognized the grin. He whipped his head the other direction to confirm, that yes, that was the exact smile currently on Mark’s face.

“Shit,” Melinda muttered again as Lacie reduced an errant branch to splinters.

“We’ve got to go,” Chris realized, speaking out loud as the thought came to him. “Pru!” he called, taking a hold of Melinda’s arm. “Pru, we have to leave.”

She stared hard at both Mark and Lacie as they approached and then beamed away.

Chris kept his eyes on Lacie as he took himself and Melinda away. The glazed look in her eyes stayed in his vision even when he reformed back in the Manor. He knew it would remain so for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Melinda V

The first thing she did when she touched the floor of the Manor was pull the crumpled map from her pocket. It left a red indent across the skin of her side and her hasty fold had done just as much damage to it, but if anyone complained, well, they should be grateful she’d brought it back at all. So what if Sausalito had a new rupture down the middle? It still functioned. She tossed the scrying crystal aside too.

“Well that sucked,” Melinda said to her companions. She remained standing and propped a hand on each waist while Chris and Pru each immediately took a seat. Her fingers brushed against a thin stem, sticking out of the pocket she’d stuffed the map into earlier. “We forgot about the laurel,” she recalled with a groan.

“I don’t think it would have made much of a difference. He was strong,” Pru said, pulling out an adjacent chair and propping her left leg on it.

Shoes clunked down the stairs, followed by the rest of Wyatt.

“It’s the escapees!” called Wyatt in a jovial, teasing tone up the stairs. 

More steps thundered down, too many to count. Melinda was only just becoming aware of how much her shoulder hurt and was more concerned with asking her brother to break out his healing hands. The newest arrivals interrupted her.

Four more bodies joined Wyatt: the Charmed Ones and Henry Junior. Three disapproving faces and one smile squared off against them.

“The afarit is taken care of,” said Henry. Then, he took a good look at them and his face slackened. Melinda felt the gazes of all five in the doorway, alternating between her, Pru’s leg propped up perfectly in their view, and Chris’ bloody mess he called a face. “I’m guessing the afarit isn’t taken care of,” Henry amended with a shake of his head.

“Did you try the nail?” asked Pru without answering any of the questions the other five clearly wanted explained.

Wyatt nodded towards a nail gun left on an end table closer to the front door. “About thirty minutes ago.”

“It didn’t work,” Pru confirmed glumly.

“Are you okay?” Phoebe asked at the same time Paige wondered aloud what happened. Melinda and Pru looked to Chris. It was more his story to tell than theirs.

While Chris spoke, the whitelighters healed the injuries and then stepped back without saying a word. Chris finished by relaying, to the best of his ability, the reason why they’d orbed out of there without their targets. Melinda couldn’t blame Chris for his disjointed tale. She wasn’t sure she understood quite what happened either.

“That would be the afarit’s power of bilocation,” said Piper.

“The what?”

“It can be in two locations at once,” explained Piper. “You would know that if you’d stuck around instead of running off on your own.”

Melinda ignored the last bit. She was too tired to deal with reprimands.

“That’s good at least,” commented Pru. Melinda stared at her, eyebrows scrunched together trying to figure out if Pru had hit her head during the run.

Chris evidently shared the sentiment of his sister because he scowled. “The fire monster can attack on two fronts at the same time. What’s good about that?”

Pru rolled her eyes. Melinda guessed she was too tired for pleasantries. “It means that there’s not two fire monsters running around when we don’t even know how to handle one.”

Melinda wasn’t sure she understood the difference. Then, a thought occurred to her that made her frown. “How do we not fight two of them?”

“First things first. We need to get Mark and Lacie here,” said Paige.

Chris, Melinda, and Pru traded looks. “They’re coming,” Chris declared, with the full backing of the others. It wasn’t hard to read the desire in the afarit’s face: desire to triumph and enraptured by the thrill of the hunt. The witches were easy prey and both parties knew it.

“You’re sure?”

“We’re sure,” repeated Pru. “I have a spell too. You can cast it, but it won’t be needed.”

“Back to the part where we figure out how to fight an afarit without actually fighting?” Melinda requested.

The five who hadn’t just faced it threw out suggestions, and Melinda took satisfaction in shutting down each one without another thought. After all, she, Chris, and Pru had earned their knowledge through blood, sweat, and tears. Grappling, rope, freezing, and a Halliwell dogpile wouldn’t work. A magical cage may work, but they would need to get both Mark and Lacie in a cage at once.

Piper sighed when Melinda shook her head at the last suggestion. “We’d hoped the nail trick would finish things.” She looked to her sisters. “We’ll have to make something.”

“A spell or a potion,” agreed Phoebe.

“Maybe both,” Paige proposed.

They turned to their children. “We’ll work on the vanquish, and we’ll need you to keep the afarit busy if it shows up before we’re ready,” suggested Phoebe.

“Look out for each other,” Piper ordered.

“Call us if you need us,” said Paige.

They departed, leaving the five in the dining room. Henry and Wyatt joined their cousins and siblings at the table. Minutes passed with nothing more than shallow conversations and unenthusiastic grunts. Melinda’s eyelids became heavier. Each blink took longer than the last. Beside her, Pru rested her head on her crossed arms, and on the other side of the table, Chris’ face had lost all hint of expression. He stared blankly at the wall and did not move.

Melinda shook herself awake with a vigorous wag of her head. “Up!” she ordered, and kicked at the nearest leg to Pru’s chair. “Get up and moving.”

Pru groaned at her.

“The adrenaline is wearing out, but we still have a demon to vanquish. Trust me, you do not want to crash right before a fight.”

Reluctantly, Pru stood up and half-heartedly stretched. Chris, however, either hadn’t paid attention or was just ignoring her. Melinda didn’t allow him either option. She darted around the table, relishing in familiar warmth of activity spreading through her veins, and then clapped her hands loudly next to his ear. He startled and hurried to fix his balance, but Melinda acted first. As his body disconnected from the sturdy presence of the table, she yanked at the back of his chair. Chris crumped to the floor with a thud and a curse.

Her first thought was jumping jacks, but she discarded that idea almost as soon as she thought it. No way she’d be able to convince Chris. Her power wouldn’t work on Chris or Pru, and she couldn’t think of a way to use it in this situation anyway.

Thankfully, Wyatt stepped it. He grabbed Chris under his arms and hoisted his brother into a standing position. “Mel’s right,” he said. “We’re safe for the moment, so why don’t we discuss tactics.”

As he spoke, he stood at the head of the table and faced the room, which was the moment the front door crashed open.

Mark’s figure appeared in the doorframe and with a scream of rage, he yanked the damaged side of the double doors right from the hinges and hurled it their way. It careered off the lintel, but that merely added a spin to the projectile.

Melinda was the first to react. She froze the door in the air. Beyond it, Mark remained unchanged, but she couldn’t claim to be surprised. Pru moved next, telekinetically dragging the door behind them into the kitchen. At least, Melinda thought it was Pru. Chris probably would have tried to send the door back at Mark.

Mark charged forward and Melinda took it upon herself to face him. His arms snaked forward in a grapple when she popped in his face, but she avoided the hold by dropping low and sweeping her feet out to catch his legs. He fell to the ground, but was moving again before Melinda could take advantage of his position. She jumped around his grasping hands like it was a dance, even managing to land directly on one. It wouldn’t leave Mark with lasting harm, but would hopefully hamper his ability to break every bone in her body.

She didn’t know many non-combative moves. Pressure points hadn’t been her thing and it was hard enough getting non-magically-enhanced men in a headlock, never mind a possessed man who casually ripped doors from the frame and hurled them as if they were frisbees. Not that she hadn’t tried to learn. She had, on multiple occasions with different instructions, but even she had to admit that without the important context of witch duties, her requests made it sound like she was in an illegal fight club, so she couldn’t fault their refusal.

So, she hopped like a bunny and hit like a mosquito, annoying and ineffectual, until Mark landed a lucky grab. His hand closed around her foot, crushed it despite the protective layer of her boots, and then flipped her legs into the air.

The impact with the floor brought a lash of pain across her jaw and her scream came out garbled before she swallowed it down because even that little movement caused a second wave of agony through her chin. She pushed herself to her knees and failed miserably at propelling herself away with only one foot.

Arms helped her and then her vision was swallowed by a golden glow. As the light faded, Henry’s brown eyes stared back at her, concerned. Melinda tested her jaw with a curt movement, and then whispered a thank you when no pain surfaced. Her foot was another story, but without taking the time to unlace her boots, there wasn’t anything Henry could do. She turned back to the fight, but caught only a glimpse of Wyatt waving his hands through the air before a crash to her left diverted her attention.

No one had time to investigate before Lacie barrelled into Chris’ side. He didn’t have anywhere to go but further into the table, and cried out in pain as Lacie’s body pushed him and the table into the opposite wall. Pru leapt out of the way just in time to avoid being pinned between table and wall.

Melinda put as much weight on her injured foot as she could manage, knowing she wouldn’t be able to sit the next part out. Five against two odds had never looked so bad.

Chapter Text

Henry III

As the afarit’s joint-attack sequestered half his family and incapacitated the rest, Henry wondered the intrinsic difference between two afarits and an afarit twice made that Pru considered the latter an improvement. He hadn’t understood when she first said it, and the conversation moved too quickly for him to intercede. Plus, he hadn’t thought it really mattered. He hadn’t really thought, period. And then two Hulks burst through the Manor’s doors, he saw the challenge ahead of them for the first time, and now he wondered.

There were two foes, either way, and as far as he could see, the second specter of its being wasn’t merely mimicking the original. Lacie’s body moved independently of Mark’s. She could kick while he flung Chris over his shoulder. A telekinetically thrown fork stabbed into Mark’s hand bore no recourse on Lacie’s grip. He had no idea if, perhaps, the afarit’s strength had been halved when it took over the second body, but he had to admit that even if that were true, half of its power still made a formidable opponent. So, what made bilocation all that different from multiple attackers?

From his position at the back, there wasn’t much to do but wonder and watch his loved ones crash around like the rag doll physic simulators Henry probably wouldn’t find much fun after today.

Tactically, they hadn’t chosen the best place to start a fight with bodies more than capable of holding down a doorway. The dining room was a thin room to begin with, and with the large table and chair set in the middle, it meant that the Halliwells had no choice but to bunch up like bowling pins. Except for the back, he realized. The back had two doorways, leading into the kitchen and the sunroom, and the sunroom looped around to the stairwell.

Henry took a step backwards giving him the space to turn around and try to flank the demons. Pru noticed him and gave him a look of concern, like she thought he was running away. He pointed to the sunroom door and hoped the gesture explained enough. It did.

Pru cupped his arms and gave them a quick squeeze. She held his arms in place and backed away from him for a few paces. She wanted to go around, and she wanted him to stay here. He let her go, and without making a sound, she soon disappeared from view.

Henry turned back to the battle, reassessing. Chris was flying into the table again, but Wyatt orbed him out of danger. Melinda, too, was out of the fray, clutching the back of a chair so hard her knuckles were white. Henry brought himself forward as far as possible and waited for Pru to move. Perhaps if they timed it right, they could take down one… somehow.

The moment came before Henry expected it to. A coffee table came from the left, skittering just above the floor, more like an oversized hockey puck than a catapult projectile. The coffee table struck Lacie in the legs, knocking her over, perhaps with a debilitating leg injury, but in hitting Lacie, it allowed Mark time to react. He held his foot out, knee bent and foot angled, and caught the table with his heel.

Wyatt reacted before Henry could. A protective, blue bubble formed, not around the witches Henry realized, but around Lacie’s body.

Mark screeched. He flung himself at the bubble and loosed a series of punches at it, but the magic held strong.

“I’ll hold her,” Wyatt said, panting. “So you can focus on him.”

Either the afarit had a grasp of the spoken word or, for the first time today, it realized it was thwarted. Mark’s body shuddered and a creature made of flame crawled out his chest. It circled its host, singing the frays in Mark’s shirt and presumably inflicting minor burns where his skin was exposed. Then, fire erupted from its hands, rolling towards the witches like a wave.

Henry grasped Melinda’s shoulders and orbed them out of the way. He hoped the others had done the same. Chris had, but Wyatt hadn’t. He must have been concentrating on his bubble, but judging by the pink tinge to Chris skin and the toppled buffet now blocking Wyatt’s body from the afarit, Henry guessed Chris had managed to give his brother a bit of cover.

The afarit didn’t stop with one bout. This time, Henry orbed he and Mel into the foyer, behind Lacie and Mark. As her feet landed on the floor, Melinda flung a steadying hand out to the wall, but Henry didn’t have time to pursue the matter. Fire was coming his way again.

They were in a better position, tactically, but now the afarit attacked without abandon, white hot in its rage.

The rug caught on fire. So, too, did the coffee table under enough heat. Paintings shrivelled on the walls and curtains became ash. Fire alarms blared, barely audibly over the afarit’s screeching. The extra fires clouded the air with smoke and made it harder to discern the afarit’s approaching attacks. He resorted to pulling himself and Melinda out of view. As the latest wave abated, Henry peered around the frame and felt Melinda do the same beneath him.

Chris’ hair was on fire. A startled shriek became audible between the blaring of the fire alarm. Horrified, Henry watched the flames lick at Chris’ forehead. His ears turned black, and the shriek became a scream. Pru ran into view, squinting her eyes, and the afarit wavered in the air. The flames gliding out of its body abated, letting Wyatt cry out in horror, orb a blanket into his hands and then throw the blanket over Chris’ head. The bubble faltered, though only Henry and Mel had an eyeline to the dimming light.

Lacie’s arm bulged. Her fingers splintered the doorframe beneath them as she pulled herself free from her prison. She took a step forward, shifting her weight mid stride. Henry felt Melinda leave her position. Lacie pulled a clenched fist back. He called out a warning to Pru, not soon enough. Pru’s head whirled around and she flinched. Then, Melinda, arms crossed in front of her face, was in front of Pru. Lacie’s fist connected with Melinda’s forearms with a sickening crack, and Melinda flew backwards, knocking over Pru, rolling over a couch, and still had enough momentum to break the legs of a loveseat. The pieces collapsed on top of Melinda and she did not move.

Bile rose in Henry’s throat. His heart stopped and then hammered in his ears to the beat of the very worst metal song.

His mother appeared on the stairwell. She met his gaze and Henry wondered what she saw in it that all the colour drained from her face. Her lips moved, but Henry heard nothing but the jackhammer of his heart.

A burst of fire heading her way orbed into nothingness, and then she appeared at his shoulder. Her touch felt ice cold, even through his shirt.

He heard his mother for the first time. “What are you doing, Pru?” she yelled.

Henry looked. He’d missed something, though he swore it had only been a few seconds. Mark’s feet were engulfed in flames with the afarit’s ethereal body spiraling from them. Lacie was in the bubble again, with Pru practically planted on the dome, faced away from Lacie. Wyatt wasn’t helping Chris anymore; he had to hold the shield in place. Pru, somehow, didn’t care. She stared at Mark and his afarit.

“We need to vanquish it, honey,” said Paige, confused.

Pru’s lips pulled back enough for Henry too see the gritted teeth beneath. “I’m going to pull the afarit completely from Mark’s body.”

Evidently, Paige had decided she had no time for tact, because she bluntly argued back. “You’re not strong enough, Pru.”

Pru’s hands trembled and veins pulsed beside her eyes. “I did it before. At least, a little. I can do it now.”

“Prudence!” Paige yelled as the afarit took advantage of Pru’s distraction. She orbed another bout of flame away from Pru’s direction. “It’s not going to work.”

Pru ignored her.

Henry’s hands were shaking. Paige clasped them in her own for a moment, and gave his fingers a little squeeze, like he was six again, and scared of the basement. Paige’s attention moved from afarit to Pru to her son, and then made the cycle again.

“They need only a few more minutes for the vanquish,” Paige explained quietly. With a jolt, Henry realized she was speaking to him—only him. He was the only one left. Him, and his premonitions.

Without further explanation, Paige dropped his hands. She couldn’t comfort him and orb a fire extinguisher into her grasp at the same time. The hiss as she sprayed the extinguisher in short bursts came as short-lived relief. Smoke became steam and a slippery foam now covered most of the sitting room, except for a circle around Mark’s body. The afarit remained, unperturbed.

Paige tried again. This time, she orbed as she sprayed. The afarit fired after her, creating a sea of red, white, and blue, far deadlier than Fourth of July fireworks. Then, the white ran out and fire overtook blue.

Henry didn’t see the injuries on his mother. He only saw the orbs of her body drop to the stairs and roll down. He turned around, looking for something besides his visions to attack the afarit. It was just him now, and if he panicked, then his family would die.

He spied the nail gun and ran for it. Fire followed him, and he just barely managed to wrap his fingers around the handle before needing to orb out of the way. He brought himself back to the centre of the action.

The afarit pulled an arm out of Mark’s body, reaching for Henry’s face. Henry raised the nail gun and fired.

The flames that comprised the afarit’s body should have done little more than heat the metal of the nail on its way into Mark’s chest, but those flames instead were pinned by the nail. The afarit screeched a final time, released a weak veil of flame, and then became ash, fluttering to the floor.

There were two more thumps, and Lacie and Mark collapsed.

Henry took a short, shaky breath.

Now he understood what made bilocation different.

Chapter Text

Henry IV

Reality struck like a sack of bricks, and each of those bricks was a different thought: were any structural beams damaged; was the fire still going; had he killed Mark; and the heaviest brick of all, how was his family?

Henry scanned the area around him. The Manor had all the hallmarks of a battle zone and it looked like some giant child had picked it up like a doll house, upended the entire building, and then shook it around for good measure. He couldn’t see any piece of furniture both undamaged and in its original piece. Most were scattered throughout three rooms, singed to a crisp. Surrounding his feet alone, he recognized a carved leg of a tall planter, half of an end table, a seat cushion from one of the sun room chairs and half of a family portrait in a shattered frame. Reassembling the ground floor would be a jigsaw puzzle at this point.

The wreckage played havoc on Henry’s vision. The scene was one half optical illusion, one half ‘Where’s Waldo’. He found Wyatt first, his head still peaking out from above the buffet. Then, Pru came running in with a bucket of water she tossed on the nearest object on fire. His mother came third. He had to look down to see her, slowing picking herself up at the bottom of the stairs. Henry helped her up and was relieved to see no burn marks as he did so. She must have just taken a fall.

Mark was unconscious close to Paige and Lacie in a similar position at the opposite end of the sitting room.

“Good work,” Paige said to him, breathing heavily and smoothing down rumpled clothing.

Wyatt hefted the nail gun in his hands. “At least our trip wasn’t completely useless.”

Paige knelt at Mark’s feet and checked for a pulse. Then, she held the back of her hand against his forehead. “His temperature is up. I’m pretty sure it’s magical, so I should be able to heal him.” Her hands glowed around his head.  

Panic set in before Henry finished counting family members in his head. He listened, and heard nothing.

Then, a wheezing moan. A death wail. The sound of many nightmares.

The bundle wearing Chris’ jeans and shirt swayed from a seated position against one side of the dining room table. The blanket was still over his head. Chris hands rose and batted at the blanket, as if he’d forgotten how to use his fingers. He wailed again.

Wyatt approached, first in a hurried leap, and then with hesitation. His hands hovered over the blanket’s hem, before clasping one end and gently lifting the veil from his brother’s head.

“Chris!” Wyatt shouted. Pru gasped. Henry immediately averted his eyes but not quick enough to avoid visage of the blanket peeling off with Chris’ skin.

“I’ll heal this,” mumbled Wyatt, over and over again.

“His eyes,” gasped Pru. Henry shoved down the immediate impulse to look. He didn’t want to see. The sounds were bad enough. Wyatt’s panicked breaths mixed with a hollow wheeze from Chris’ chest. A harrowed moan coming from the back of Chris’ throat.

Then, a scrambling from somewhere new. A leg moved out of the corner of his eye. Henry recognized the boots attached to that leg.

Melinda used one leg as leverage to hoist her body into a seated position. Henry expected her to continue climbing up to standing, probably with a limp and a chagrinned smile. Her arms, bent slightly at the elbow came out like she wanted to reach for a handhold. The red, long-sleeved shirt she wore was tattered and barely holding together at the shoulders.

A sob burst from her mouth, and then a cacophony of cries. “It hurts,” she wailed, now with shaking arms. “It hurts,” she repeated, again, and again.

Henry ran to her. She’d tumbled through wooden furniture, after all. She probably hit her head against the wall as well. There’d be bruises and scratched to heal.

Up close, he realized she wasn’t wearing a red shirt. It had been light yellow only ten minutes ago.

“Help me,” Melinda sobbed, jostling her arms up and down. All the movement came from her shoulders. Henry didn’t even think she’d realized he was next to her. She just stared vacantly ahead, arms outstretched, and begged for the pain to stop.

Henry hadn’t studied anatomy beyond biology in high school, in which he obtained a barely passing mark, so he didn’t have prior knowledge to back up his assertion that the only thing holding her forearms together were tattered muscles, slivers of ligaments, and the thin remainder of a bone. The rest of the bone stabbed through the flesh in pieces ranging from one to two inches. A long strip of skin on both arms had simply split open.

“It hurts” Melinda called again.

Henry clamped his eyes shut, this time to stem the flow of tears. He rubbed the remainder away with his sleeve and held out his hands. The healing magic sprang to his palms in a bright golden light, making the mangled mess of her arms even more apparent. He worked one arm at a time, unsure of how thorough his magic could heal the human body. He could think of half a dozen ways he could screw it up, but each thought spent on a fraction of second at the forefront of his thoughts. Desperation drove out all else.

He sang a song from their childhood while he healed. He hoped it helped.

He was only part way through the first arm when Pru suddenly cried out. She pointed to a corner just out of Henry’s sight. “Reveal yourself!”

When no body appeared, she simply picked up a chair leg and swung it like a baseball bat. The chair leg made a loud thunk of impact, causing a masculine voice to cry out in pain.

“Rest assured, I am not here for you,” said the voice. Henry could only see the ripple of a dark blue cloak. “I must admit, I hadn’t thought to run into anyone.” He paused. “Well, anyone alive that is.”

Pru readied her improvised baseball bat again. Henry saw a set of hands shoot out placatingly. Then, there was a long pause. Henry got the impression that some movement was happening, but whatever it was, it wasn’t in the newcomer’s hands. As much as he wanted to be kept in the loop, he didn’t dare stifle the flow of healing emanating from his hands. Beyond Pru, Paige and Wyatt looked to be in much the same predicament.

Perhaps a similar thought was what caused the newcomer to chuckle. Pru suddenly shrieked. Henry whipped his gaze back to her and saw her pull a small dart from both of her wrists. Seconds passed as she held the darts in her grasp, and then sluggishly, her fingers parted to let the darts drop to the floor.

“You witches channel your power through your hands, don’t you?” the newcomer said, suddenly cheerful. “You’ve only been dosed with a mild sedative. The effect should wear off in an hour or so.”

While Pru stared angrily at her nonresponsive hands, the newcomer repositioned himself at the foot of the stairs, where Henry could see him finally, and he could see everyone.

As the witches glared at him, he held up a corkscrewed bottle of sickly green liquid. “I can see you’re busy,” he said with cheer. “But just in case one of you gets a bright idea, this vial holds a poison that will kill inside a minute. Think carefully before you murder your entire coven, will you?”

His threat earned no verbal response. Henry figured everyone else was glaring at the newcomer like Henry was. There wasn’t much else anyone could do. With Chris and Melinda in such dire straights, plus two innocents in the middle, the Halliwells were stuck. Either the demon had been watching them, or he had gotten very, very lucky in his timing.

“I am something of an alchemist,” the demon explained, with a flourish of his cloak. “I had hoped to bottle afarit fire directly, but it seems you lot survived.” He affected gravitas. “Well done,” he lied. Like the witches had inconvenienced him, he sighed. “Well, the ash will have to do.”

He wagged his fingers towards Pru. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he requested, eyebrow raised.

Once again, Henry missed the action. Surprise flashed across the alchemists’ face and when he turned to stare at the hand holding the vial, Henry guessed what had happened. The alchemist was under the impression Pru channeled her power through her hands, hence the paralytic, and he obviously didn’t expect Pru to use her eyes. She must have gotten a hold of the alchemist’s hand and was not letting go.

“MOM!” Pru shouted, loud enough to cause Henry to wince. Her persistence was rewarded by the rapid arrival of the final two Charmed Ones.

Piper took one look at the alchemist and threw a potion at him. The glass cracked at the demon’s feet, emitted a puff of smoke, but otherwise did nothing.

“That’s not the afarit,” explained Pru. Henry guessed that with the gravelling tone to her voice and her eyes squinting as they did when she used her power, she came across as pretty pissed off.

The alchemist stumbled over his words, but no one gave him the attention he wanted.

Paige held out a hand. “The Book!” she called. Her hand dipped under the weight of the summoned Book of Shadows, so Phoebe and Piper descended the last of the stairs to relieve her of the family tome.

Phoebe held the Book in her arms while Piper flipped pages.

Pru grunted. “I can’t hold him for much longer. Grab the bottle.”

Piper obliged, to the Alchemist’s disapproval. She stuffed the bottle into the pocket of her sweater and returned to her search.

“Aha!” Phoebe called out.

Now panicking, the Alchemist attempted to negotiate. “You make potions, yes? I can get you many rare ingredients!”

Phoebe hummed. “It says he’s a low-level demon.”

“Well, then.” Piper smirked at the Alchemist. She caught the man’s eyes and then flicked her fingers. The Alchemist exploded into smoke.

Pru dropped her magic with heavy, relieved exhale.

“When it rains, it pours, huh?” said Phoebe with affected cheer as the last of vanquish smoke twisted away. She approached her daughter and held Pru’s hands in her own. Phoebe frowned when Pru made no attempt to return the grasp, or even move her digits at all. Apparently under the assumption that they’d been frozen numb, Phoebe rubbed Pru’s hands between hers.

“The demon said I’d regain feeling in about an hour,” explained Pru, glumly.

Phoebe’s gaze dropped to her feet where the two darts lay innocently on the charred floor. She picked up the darts and held them up to the light, careful to avoid the needle. Henry couldn’t see the darts any better in the air than on the ground, and he judged by his Aunt’s face she didn’t see anything special about them either. Still, he had a feeling they would end up in the Attic or Magic School as the target of some research later.

“Has anyone tried healing you?” asked Phoebe. She glanced around the room, to the three, preoccupied healers, and her face crumbled.

Henry wanted to say ‘Caught on yet’, but he realized the jab would be too sharp for the situation. He didn’t need to rub anything in; the disaster was readily apparent right in front of their faces. Henry turned away instead, and focused all his energy on healing.

Chapter Text

Chris V

Chris saw warm, brown eyes as he woke. The first few blinks were a flare of white light that gradually dimmed as he closed and opened his eyes. Monochrome blobs solidified into familiar shapes, including his mother.

Piper pulled back slightly as she recognized Chris was awake. Her face was grim, but given his and the house’s condition, he recognized the look for what it was: worry.

The thought led his brain down a dangerous path. First, he tried to recall what made her worry, which brought to mind his injury, which brought to mind nothing, because he shoved those memories, far, far away in a steel-lined vault. Even just the residual trace of the recollection pushed his heart to a break-neck speed. He forced himself back into the present.

He was in the half of the sun room that hadn’t been in the afarit’s warpath, lying on a couch, with Piper kneeling near his head. “Go back to sleep,” she urged gently. Her hands reached forward to run through his hair, but then hung in the air like she’d thought better of it.

He grumbled out a reply that sounded like gravel to his ears. “Is the afarit gone?”

Piper helped him up with a firm hand on his back, and kept her hands around his shoulders when his head swam. Now that he had a better view, he realized he wasn’t alone. Henry helped Melinda pull off her boot, and Mark and Lacie appeared catatonic on a bed of blankets and couch cushions. Pru stared at her hands as if there was nothing else in the room. Wyatt and Paige were no where to be found.

“Junior vanquished the afarit. Your innocents haven’t woken up yet.”

Chris shifted his attention to Henry, moving as little as possible. “Good job, man.”

Henry gave him a grunt of a reply, too focused on his task to speak properly. Although Chris had no idea why Henry found the boot so important, Chris shifted his fingers down a fraction, assisting with his power.

“Phoebe’s whipping up something to help Pru and Paige and Wyatt went to ask the Elders if there is anything we are supposed to be doing with… Mark and Lacie, was it?”

Chris nodded. Beside him, Melinda hissed. Henry’s hands were hovering now over the top of her sock. She muttered a curse every time he looked to pull the sock down. Chris left them to their devices.

Pru finally pulled her attention from her hands. “How do we explain this to them?”

“Do we have to?” wondered Henry, slowing working the sock down Melinda’s ankle.

“What if they remember?” proposed Pru. “Even just pieces. They shattered doors and conjured fire.”

Chris didn’t bother to ask if the book had mentioned if hosts remembered after the fact. If it had, Pru would have mentioned it, and if it didn’t, it was probably one of the many facets his aunt and brother were currently attempting to pry out of the notoriously tight-lipped Elders.

Piper crossed her arms. “In the past, we’ve kept the secret as long as possible. But, if it’s better for their wellbeing, we’ll explain things.”

Melinda mimicked the pose, and turned her head away with a huff. “I don’t really care what’s best for them right now.”

She received admonishment from Pru and only dug her jaw in deeper. “They’re innocent, I get it,” Melinda spat. “Forgive me if that doesn’t mean I want to look at them right now.”

Instead of chastising, Piper moved to her daughter’s side. She tilted Melinda’s face up and to the left, softly running her thumb over the exposed bruise on Melinda’s jaw. Henry took advantage of the distraction and whipped off the remainder of the sock. The foot beneath was almost unrecognizable, purple to the ankle and so swollen only the tips of her toes could be identified from the mound of bruised flesh. Henry hovered his glowing hands over the mass and slowly healed the damage.

Any further discussion was halted by the dinging of the doorbell. The Halliwells looked at each other.

“Were you expecting company?” asked Junior.

“No.”

“Nice of them to ring the doorbell when there isn’t a door to knock on.”

Pru stood up. “I’ll see who it is.” She returned in moments, with a startled Olivia trailing behind. Olivia’s eyes widened when she caught sight of Chris.

Piper quickly froze the scene. Phoebe arrived as Olivia froze, likely drawn by the noise. She passed a cloth to Pru, who wordlessly spread the contained goo over her hands in clumsy movements.

“Who’s this?” asked Piper.

Chris explained Oliva’s presence quickly and theorized she’d tracked Mark down again using his phone. When he was done, Phoebe nodded. “She loves him.”

Chris wasn’t comforted. He’d kept Olivia and Lacie away from Mark as much as possible (Olivia more of a success than Lacie), but she’d still seen enough. How was she going to reconcile the man she knew as her husband with the monster that almost threw her across a room? What damage had the afarit rendered to their relationship, especially if Mark remembered nothing?

He thought fast, came to a conclusion, and prepared himself to accept the consequences.

Piper unfroze the scene at his request and he moved to Olivia’s side.

“What happened to your hair?” asked Olivia immediately.

Clueless, Chris brought his hand to his head and brushed against his scalp. The fire must have burnt his hair off, which explained the sudden draft at his temple. He pushed the thought aside for a calmer moment.

Chris ignored the question. “Sorry I haven’t kept you up to date,” he began, forming a story as he spoke. “I brought Mark and Lacie here. My dad is a doctor and he’s waiting on some tests yet, but he’s sure Mark was dosed with something that triggered a dissociative rage.”

“He was drugged?” gasped Olivia.

Chris nodded. The story was close enough to the truth, so he didn’t feel bad for the lie. “He’s not the first my dad’s seen. I guess there have been a few in the past couple of months.”

Olivia’s confusion turned to horror. She spoke quickly and passionately about setting up programs and community watches to address the problem.

Piper offered to make Olivia a cup of coffee while they waited for the “sedative” to disperse from Mark and Lacie’s systems. When the two finally awoke twenty minutes later, they woke entirely confused, their last memories of some innocuous event far away from the Manor. The fake story went through a retelling, and Chris felt impatience bleed into his compassion.

The trio wanted details, which Chris couldn’t give, and they wanted to meet the doctor who saved Mark, which obviously wouldn’t be possible. Leo’s medical expertise was decades old and limited to battlefield medicine. No way he’d be able to convince two modern-day people in the medical profession, despite a blank slate in their memories that left them with little choice but to accept the explanation.

The less information Chris gave, the lesser chance of that information being the future bullet of his family’s undoing. So, he ushered them out the (broken, dislodged) door and out of his family’s life, none the wise of what truly had occurred.

The family visibly relaxed once they were alone. Henry resumed his work on Melinda’s foot and Wyatt and Paige orbed in with utterances of “Finally!” They traded information, very little than what they knew hours previous, and closed the chapter of the afarit page.

Next came the aftermath.

“What do you even tell the insurance company?” asked Paige, surveying the full extent of the damage now that the dust and ash had settled. “There was an earthquake that was on fire?”

Piper laughed sardonically. “Hah! This stays in-house. My husband has gotten very good at home repair and restoration over the years, and I’m no slouch at reupholstering.”

“We’ll help, Aunt Piper,” volunteered Henry.

Piper shot him a wide smile. “Leo would love the help. You might even be able to teach him a thing or two.”

Her foot finally whole again, Melinda tentatively stood up. From the centre of the room, she asked, “Can’t we just cast a spell?”

“Personal gain,” responded Chris.

“Bullshit,” she shot back. “It’s just restoring the house to its previous state before an afarit torched the place.”

Paige hummed. “She’s not wrong.”

Chris gaped at her, and Paige gave him a thin smile. “It’s Piper’s decision,” declared Paige.

Piper thought for a moment. “I’ll discuss it with Leo. See what he thinks. For now, let’s just make the place not a safety hazard.”

Chris found himself forced into the “Time-Out Chair” as Melinda called it, having water and fruit forced into his hands at uneven intervals. Three separate people offered him aloe lotion, just in case. He quickly realized that as much of a chore cleanup was, having to watch cleanup was even worse. Before long, boredom fueled his every move and he found himself imagining movement in the shadows.

So, as he glanced out the windows, he made himself blink and refocus. The view remained the same. Silently, he stood, and propped open the nearest window. He held his hand out, palm upwards to catch the falling flakes. They melted on his palm immediately, but more followed. When Chris pulled his hand back inside, it cupped enough water to soak the cuff of his shirt.

He stared back at the white flakes floating to the ground, and couldn’t help the incredulous question that slipped from his lips.

“Is that snow?”