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Chapter Text

“You’re asking me to bring a vampire onto my team?” There’s an uncharacteristic strain in Lisbon’s voice. The older gentleman eyes her warily for a moment before continuing.

“Now, Teresa, I understand it’s an… unconventional risk. But Mr. Jane seems like our best opportunity to actually move the Red John case forward.”

The dark-haired woman folds her arms indignantly, a bit awkward in her seated position. A gold cross necklace glitters against her chest. She huffs. “Is this you talking, Minelli? Or did he hypnotize you?”

“Come on, Teresa. You heard his story on the news. I have every reason to believe he has no loyalties to his sire,” Minelli asserts. He scratches idly at a sideburn which he swears he just trimmed back last week. Wolves always did tend to be a bit on the scruffy side no matter what they did. He wishes the curse could have done more for his aging hairline, though. 

No matter – he sits forward, looking at Lisbon’s eyes with all the earnestness he can muster. “You’re right to be cautious. It’s smart, and it’s exactly the reason why I think you’re the only person who can handle this job. If he proves your suspicions right, then you can deal with him appropriately.”

It’s not the response she wanted, but it bolsters her nonetheless. Lisbon nods solemnly. “I just hope by then it won’t be too late.”

—

It’s his first day on the job. Or, rather, first evening. That’s been a peculiar adjustment, missing the joys of sunlight. The lack of need for sleep is a cruel joke on top of the vulnerability, but if anything, Jane hopes it will allow him more time to assist Agent Lisbon and her team in their work, leaving his nights free to track down the man – no, less than a man. The monster – who killed his wife and child and turned him into this… thing.

He hasn’t decided if he, too, is a monster yet.

Though the word takes on a different meaning as he enters the offices of the CBSI. The Covert Bureau of Supernatural Investigation, Sacramento Branch. 

There are, as he has discovered, regional oddities and paranormalities across the nation, if not worldwide. His recent undeath barely scratches the surface.

While he had some inklings of the supernatural while playing the role of a sideshow psychic, it’s odd reassurance to have some kind of confirmation. 

Since reawakening and approaching the Bureau, Patrick has done a not insignificant amount of research into the figures staffing this strange office, if only to ensure he stayed one step ahead at all times. 

One needn’t take more than a single glance at Wayne Rigsby to determine that he’s a werewolf. Textbook definition, really. 

He has an energy and athleticism about him mixed with the lovable simplicity of a dog chasing its tail at times that would have been an undead giveaway if it weren’t also for the faint animal smell Jane could detect whenever he was in the vicinity. The vampire assumes this enhanced sense is a part of his new anti-life, or else everyone on the team is too polite to remark on it. 

Still, Rigsby isn’t a fool – perhaps a little more driven on instinct, but thankfully that instinct is honed to protect.

Several local newspapers seem to be under the impression that the man named Kimball Cho is legally dead. 

Perhaps his stoicism and lack of pulse could easily be conflated with straightforward vampirism, but from Jane’s own independent study of the situation, there appears to be some connection to a Northern California street gang called the Avon Park Playboys, known to dabble in necromancy. 

Blood in, blood out must have some different, supernatural stipulations in this life. But regardless of his past, Cho seems loyal, observant, and difficult to kill. Helpful , that.

What little Jane could find on Grace Van Pelt is likely due to her relative rookie status with the team – that, and her specialty in technology is somewhat out of his depth. 

What he understands, though, is that she possesses a particular aptitude for the integration of protective runes and elemental edicts in the virtual world. Essentially, computerized spellcasting. 

He’s curious to ask her about the analogue translations of her work, but he is also morbidly delighted to learn you can hex someone through an email. Maybe he can persuade her (with natural charm, not vampiric hypnotism) to provide a demonstration sometime.

Then finally, there’s Teresa Lisbon. There are a few delectable rumors about the diminutive homicide detective, though the records Jane was able to access in advance of his consultancy state with confidence that she is descended from a line of particularly powerful banshees. 

It makes sense, given her Irish Catholic heritage, her tendency to never raise her voice, and the sheer concentration of death cases her team catches. Of course, a banshee isn’t a killer – she’s a beautiful herald of disaster. 

The religious upbringing, he surmises by the sight of the gold cross hanging from her neck, would elicit a certain sense of guilt that fuels her passionate work. Solve the cases so the victims and their families can rest. 

But the woman shows a shocking emotional restraint (or is it repression?) despite her suggested disposition. Patrick Jane wonders what it would mean to see her driven to tears?

A darker part of him yet wonders if he’ll be the one to push her to that edge.

But for now, he’s not willing to chance the pain her gold cross might bring him, as small as the pendant is. Small things can be extremely potent, in his estimation. That, and he’s still learning the limits and heights of this vampiric form. 

Red John, in killing Jane's wife and child before turning the man into a fledgling for his own twisted amusement, has given him the very tools he needs to enact his revenge. But Jane is reluctant to lose himself to these dark gifts, which may also be his own undoing.

“Jane? We’ve got a cold one.”

Teresa’s voice draws him out of his reverie. The consultant’s eyes first meet her necklace, tracing the delicate chain up pale flesh towards her tense-set jaw, then to her own expectant gaze.

“C’mon, let’s go. Eyes on the scene say there’s been no signs of reanimation yet, but we need to get a move on. Can’t waste moonlight with you around.”

Jane spies a hint of tiredness in Agent Lisbon’s eyes. The kind that comes from a lack of sleep, or perhaps impatience, or weeping long past. 

“Right,” he nods, severing his fixation on her. “Yes, we should go.” Something itches just under his gums, but he clears his throat and gestures for her to lead the way.

—

Early CBSI responders have already finished laying down obscuring sigils around the perimeter, ensuring that any incidental civilian observation is just hazy enough to be a mundane memory. The crime scene is cordoned off anyhow, but that never stops eager onlookers and opportunistic voyeurs.

Jane and Lisbon approach the victim’s body, which is floating in a shallow river, anchored in place among some reeds.

“What do you make of it?” Lisbon asks Jane, who has begun to back away up the embankment before getting too close. If he’s already repulsed by the body, this partnership is going to be a test of her patience. She waits as he assesses the scene.

“That we have a very romantic killer,” the vampire says, extending the thumb and forefinger on each hand and placing them into a ‘frame’ shape in front of his face. “Art history. Are you familiar?”

“What? I don’t see what that has to do with this.”

“Oh, the lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“Excuse me?”

Jane trots down the hill, back to Lisbon and the lady in the water. “Hamlet, Agent Lisbon. More specifically, Ophelia – there’s a famous painting where she’s laying in a river, drowned. It’s quite gorgeous in its tragedy,” he explains casually. “Some even consider it to be erotic.”

The speed with which Lisbon’s brows knit together could be considered inhuman (though that’s not an ability banshees are known to possess). 

“Do you? Consider it erotic?”

Jane crouches by the water, studying the victim. She’s young, maybe mid-twenties. He’s no expert in waterlogged bodies, but she still seems fairly undamaged, and fully clothed. 

The killer left her some dignity. Despite wet hair mussed and clinging to her face and chest, he can see there’s a rope slipped around her neck, which must be tied to some form of weight holding her in place. 

Finishing the telltale tableau is the presence of somewhat fresh flowers, most of which seem to have been thrown in the river along with her. There’s some caught in her hair, in her dress, and in the reeds. “No, but I’m willing to bet our killer did.”

He leans in to smell the scene and underneath the damp, not wholly unpleasant aroma of public river water, there are undoubtedly several floral and herbaceous scents mingled in – faded as they are at this cold, late hour. Jane takes note of this. 

It’s an interesting crime scene. Quite deliberate, but he can’t quite ascertain the purpose of the showmanship. It’s not Red John, that much is clear. The thought provides cold comfort given the fact a woman is dead here. But so is he, and the hunt continues.

—

“Victim’s name is Morgan Marsden,” Lisbon explains to the group rounded up in the bullpen. She pins a photograph and some basic information to the team’s whiteboard after some quick intelligence gathering on Van Pelt’s part. “25 years old, she was found out by Alder Creek. Worked as a hostess at an upscale restaurant in Folsom.”

It’s still a few hours away from dawn but the office’s spell-tempered shades are already drawn for the courtesy of their vampire consultant. 

“At a glance, the crime appears to be a drowning, but we’ll have the tox reports back shortly to confirm the cause of death for sure. Forensics should also let us know whether she scans mundane or has supernatural biology. At this time we’re also not sure of a motive but Jane has drawn some connections to a classical painting of Ophelia in a lake. Van Pelt, can we do some digging into that, see if the piece has maybe ended up in any museums around here? Find out where our killer got their inspiration.”

“You got it, boss.”

Jane likes the way the woman takes charge. If he didn’t know better, he’d surmise the supernatural special agent had some bit of siren in her, the way her voice commands authority over the room. 

Despite that, she is still undoubtedly one of the more human members among the CBSI. And that means she’s not entirely immune to the exhaustion and sleep deprivation that comes associated with nocturnal shifts. 

She’s on at least the third coffee he’s seen from her tonight, its earthy scent enveloping her – though it belies a hint of something more herbal. Distinct from what he’d sensed at the crime scene, though he wonders if that’s somehow related to a banshee’s presence at funeral mounds, the earthiness. The scent of sorrow and sacred land, buried beneath coffee grounds. 

He’s also noticed the way her heart rate peaks when introducing a fresh wave of caffeine, and Patrick tries his best not to picture the deep crimson spray that would stain them both if he were to slake his thirst by biting her. He tries not to picture hypnotizing her, compelling her to drop those carefully constructed defenses as he leaves her prone to his worst impulses.

“Mr. Jane? Anything you care to add?”

He perks up, ripping his eyes away from Lisbon’s more delicate regions. Words tumble from his mouth as if his mind has been working the case alongside her this whole time (because he has).

“Ah, yes – just that it’s interesting, the floral arrangement at the scene of the crime. Now, in the original painting, the artist added a red poppy which was not part of Shakespeare’s original texts. I saw no poppy on our victim, which is a surprise given its prevalence in California. Of course, someone who is already committing murder would have no qualms about the law forbidding the damage or removal of poppies from grounds you don’t own,” he explains. 

It amuses Jane quickly that Lisbon is lost in the flowery language, while Van Pelt sits rapt, her wide eyes only once or twice flickering towards Rigsby, who sits entirely unaware.

“Furthermore, there were violets, which, if I’m not mistaken–” 

He knows he’s not.

“--were mentioned in Hamlet, but in that Ophelia had none left in her bouquet. Violets are traditionally a symbol of feminine purity. So why would our killer swap the symbols? And you said Ms. Marsden worked at a restaurant – rosemary, for remembrance, and fennel. I could smell those on her person as well.”

Jane finishes his thought and looks to Lisbon like the answer is obvious. The woman waits about three seconds before taking a deep breath and asking, “So, what, you think someone at the restaurant killed her?”

Grace chimes in this time in between typing flurries on her keyboard. “Or, maybe some kind of florist. You know, a Little Shop of Horrors situation?”

“Oh, I’ve wanted a killer plant case for so long,” Rigsby says, and Cho gives him a quiet look of disgust, nose wrinkled. Jane wonders if he’s joking, or if that’s something they have to look forward to someday. The stoic undead agent raises a good point.

“Sounds to me like we need to figure out where the Shakespeare element comes in – it’s far too purposeful to be a coincidence.”

Jane smiles at Cho’s assessment. “Ay, there’s the rub. But we don’t have time to stage the musical, so we’ll have to catch the conscience of our killer some other way.”

“Boss, I’ve got something.”

“What is it, Grace?” Lisbon asks, relieved to have some sort of distraction.

“The restaurant has a partnership with a local florist across town, they do custom floral arrangements for the tables on a semi-weekly basis,” Grace says, turning her monitor towards Lisbon, who cranes her neck down over the rookie’s shoulder. “There might be something there worth looking at.”

Well, it’s enough of a lead for Lisbon. She nods, immediately back in delegation mode. “Cho and Rigsby – I want you two to check out the restaurant and see if there’s anyone there who might know about Morgan’s disappearance. Jane and I will check the florist.”

“Wonderful initiative, Lisbon, really – just one small problem,” Jane interjects, a finger politely raised. “These businesses are mainly open during daylight hours. That may pose a bit of a problem for me.”

“Oh. Right. My mistake.”

Lisbon knows the moment she stops thinking about him as though he’s a vampire is the moment it all goes wrong. Still, having a nocturnal consultant isn’t the most helpful for a case so mundane-adjacent.

“Fine, then Grace and I will go out when the florist opens. Cho and Rigsby, wait until sundown, take Jane with you and see if he can’t use that… weird vampire sniffer to find out more about the other herbs in the death scene.”

Jane gives Lisbon a look of mock offense.

“Weird vampire sniffer? Give me some credit, Lisbon, that’s just good culinary sense. Besides, Rigsby’s like a lunar scent hound, I’m sure he’ll be just as useful.”

“Yeah – hey, wait. Did you just call me a dog?”

“Heel, Rigsby,” Cho says, a little smirk raising across his features.

Lisbon barely stifles a yawn in her effort to calm the banter. Her eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, the coffee clearly not having helped much. The poor woman has been awake all night, Jane notes.

“You’ve got a few hours yet. Why don’t you get some rest, Teresa?”

He can tell she’s reluctant to leave the team – whether it’s because of her work ethic or her healthy distrust of him, he’s yet to determine. But she relents.

“Grace, set an alarm and if I don’t come down by 8am sharp, come get me. I’ll be in the loft. The rest of you who don’t need sleep, try to figure out this Shakespeare connection in the meantime.”

A general ripple of acknowledgement passes through the bullpen, and Grace immediately sets to typing. Cho moves to scan the facts of the case again, and Rigsby hesitates, then moves to hover over the redheaded woman’s shoulder. Jane spots him gently nosing at her hair, no doubt trying to ascertain the scent of her shampoo today. It’s cherry almond, for the record.

The consultant waits a moment and then follows Lisbon upstairs to the attic loft, with a heavy rolling door. Though the vampire moves with relative silence and grace, the detective’s shoulders tense as though she can sense the specter of death following her. Does its familiarity scare her?

“Jane. Did I invite you to come with me?”

“No, but I thought I’d –”

“What I need you thinking over is the facts of the case. Really, I’m going to take a cat nap and be back in action,” Lisbon asserts.

“Cat nap – is that a hint?”

“A hint of what?”

“Nothing. I read your files. Banshee, are we sure about that?”

“Jane.”

She stops entertaining the question, but, oh, the heightening of her pulse is tantalizing. Jane can feel the itch under his gums again, the feeling of teeth tugging him forward to feed. Be it anger, fear, adrenaline – her heart beats for him. He turns his head sharply away from her and grunts.

The woman steps past the threshold of the loft room and regards him with cold eyes. “I do not invite you inside. I’ve had wards in place before you were hired, so don’t take it personally.”

He nods. She’s smart to rebuke him. The vampire won’t even test the strength of her wards and protections, but any homicide detective worth her salt circle has seen enough vampire attacks to know the simple invitation is just as good as welcoming death into the home. Whether the CSBI’s attic qualifies as a proper domicile, though…

“I wouldn’t invite me inside either. Have a good nap, Lisbon.”

She gruffly rolls the door closed without so much as a word. Jane waits, lingering silently. He can sense her movements, hear the slowing of her heartbeat, until he’s certain she’s asleep. And even then, trancelike he waits as the dawn breaks outside and sunlight creeps like honey beneath the gap under the door. Slow, golden, he wonders how it would burn if he could see Teresa resting under its warming rays. Vulnerable, flushed with sleep.

No. These urges, this phantom hunger, they’re not him. Not who he wants to be.

These are Red John’s thoughts. These are the thoughts of a monster.

Jane wonders if his first victim ever made it to Teresa’s desk.

Chapter Text

“Reese, c’mon. It’s your old man.”

There were plenty of nights when she didn’t recognize the man her father was becoming. After their mother died, Teresa and her brothers had gone from having childhoods to simply having to survive. As the eldest, she knew she was responsible for ensuring that, for all of them. 

There was always a strength in her, but sometimes Lisbon isn’t sure whether that was simply in her nature or if it was a choice she had made once upon a time.

“Reese, sweetie, I’m coming in. You and the boys can’t hide from me forever.”

A heavy thump, thump, thump sounded against the wood of her door, which wouldn’t hold forever.

“Tommy, Stan, Jimmy, you three have to get in my closet, okay? Don’t do what he tells you, that’s not our dad anymore.” Another thump, thump, and the groan of splintering wood. “You can’t come in!”

The struggle stopped for a moment and the girl could hear a dark chuckle. “Normally, sweetheart, I’d respect my teenage daughter’s privacy. But my name’s on the deed – you can’t uninvite me from our house. I’m coming in, Reese.”

The door exploded into the room as her brothers finished tumbling in among the shoe rack and hanging clothes lining their sister’s closet. The thing that staggered in had all the familiar shape of her father. It even had his rage, even if in a cruel twist of the knife, he was entirely sober.

Thirsty, yes, but sober.

“Get out.” Teresa sternly warned him, her hands trembling as they braced her against her bedroom wall. Her eyes flickered nervously towards the closet, watching tiny fingertips trying to hold the loose door shut. Her father’s gaze followed, and his grin revealed crooked fangs.

“Boys, it’s okay. We’re still a family, aren’t we? There’s no need for the dramatics.”

“I said get out, now.”

“Reese, I know I raised you better than this. I know your mother–”

“Don’t talk about her.”

He tutted his tongue before running it over the pearly, protruding teeth that now staggered his smile. “Her death hurt me just as much, Reese. Don’t do that. We still have each other.

“You’re dead too!” It’s not a threat, but a statement of fact. She doesn’t know how, but Teresa knew he was a vampire. She suspected a vampire is the reason her mother died too, even if her father never said as much. “There’s no family left here!”

In the closet, the boys winced. Stan knew she didn’t mean it like that. He’s doing his best to keep Tommy and Jimmy held tight, arms wrapped around them both. He covered their ears, fearing what would come next.

“Last chance, boys. Come out with your sister, and we’ll all have a nice little discussion…”

“Don’t listen to h–”

Teresa’s voice was choked by the swift surprise of a hand around her throat. Vampires did possess a degree of speed and strength, even if her clumsy father was only newly turned. 

“Sorry, Reese, but you know I can’t have you yelling so the neighbors can hear.”

A silvery tear escaped her eye as she struggled vainly against his grasp. Her hands then tried to brace the wall again, find a piece of furniture, anything for leverage. Her breath was ragged and she knew she only had one chance at this. She could see, from the corner of her eye, one of her brothers poking his head out from the closet door.

“No… NOOO!”

It happened so quickly, so loudly, so explosively. Her father, thrown back, dropping the young Lisbon to the floor. Her ears were ringing, her whole body trembling with the effort, tears now falling freely. Her brothers emerged to see the devastation in the din, and only once Teresa was certain her father wasn’t going to get up again did she allow herself to pass out.

—

Lisbon is tense but alert after her nap, quietly preparing herself for the investigation to follow. She collects Van Pelt from the bullpen and the two women depart for the florist in Folsom, a modest half hour of a drive.

As they leave, Jane nods to Cho, who likewise needs to sleep as a member of the undead, and then to Rigsby, who was still fresh enough, having slept while the consultant had been at the crime scene in the first place.

“Well, gentlemen, let me know when it’s time for our dinner date. D’you think we need reservations?”

“Where are you going, Jane?” Cho asks, looking up from his stack of paperwork.

“Oh, just to do a little meditation. Away from the windows,” he says, gesturing to the glass panes, their blinds still drawn. “I know you said the Bureau had these tempered to prevent char-broiling me, but… Well, I’ve never been very trusting in the mystic. I’m going to wait out the worst of it in one of the holding rooms, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jane nods and finds a nice, quiet interior space to wait. In the silence, he closes his eyes and finds it easy to slip into a trance. No breathing, no heartbeat. Only his memories, his theories, and the hunger.

—

They arrive at The Blossom Bar just after it opens. Lisbon isn’t exactly well-versed in the language of flowers but there are a few plants here she recognizes. The basics, of course, like roses and tulips and daisies. But between her and Van Pelt, they also clock some more interesting specimens – verbena, artemisia, and blackthorn among them.

“For witchcraft, maybe. A little more than your typical ‘I’m sorry I missed our anniversary’ bouquet,” Van Pelt whispers under her breath, noting an absence of the more lethal herbs and blooms. “Not sure what this one is, though.” Her fingertips brush the stem of a yellow cluster of petals, short and lively, fanning around a small green bulb.

“Herb of grace,” a woman corrects. The redhead, hearing her name, turns quickly.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what it’s called, herb of grace. Ruta graveolens, or rue, if you’re familiar.” A short blonde woman with a streak of silver in her tightly wound hair steps out from the back room of the flower shop. “Hello, ladies. Something I can assist you with?”

Lisbon steps forward to meet her, extending not a hand in greeting but the billfold of her badge. It’s glamoured to appear as a mundane certification with the local law enforcement. 

“Hi, ma’am. I’m Agent Teresa Lisbon and this is Agent Grace Van Pelt. We’re investigating a local murder and we’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”

The florist’s lips purse for a moment before she softens. “Alright. How can we be of help?”

“Am I correct in understanding that your store makes custom arrangements for The Plum and Dove in Folsom? Can you tell me a little more about that?”

At that, the blonde turns her head towards the back and calls out. “Zander, come here for a minute.” It’s not a request, but an order. She turns back to the agents. “Zan does the deliveries. His brother works at the restaurant.”

Zander emerges, prompt but wary. He’s young, early 20s, wearing a band T-Shirt over a neutral long-sleeve. His hair is short cropped and curly, coffee brown, and there’s a bit of scruff from only two days of not shaving.

“What’s up?”

“These women want to know about the restaurant arrangements we provide.”

Zander nods. “Oh, yeah. Every other week they pick a new color scheme and we, uh, make like twenty bouquets. They have sixteen tables but we always make a few extras just in case.”

Grace chimes in, “Have they made any unusual requests recently?”

“Like clashing colors, or–”

“Like poisonous plants, or secret coded messages,” Lisbon clarifies. The Bloom Bar’s owner interrupts. 

“We don’t carry anything inherently dangerous, or with an intent to poison. Of course many of nature’s gifts can have… ill effects if ingested or otherwise mishandled, but if you’re suggesting that we… well, I’m not entirely sure what you’re suggesting,” the blonde refutes.

“Of course not, ma’am,” Agent Van Pelt soothes, or rather, tries to soothe. “We’re just doing our due diligence.” 

Lisbon adds, “Did either of you personally interface with the victim Morgan Marsden?”

Zander and the shop owner turn to one another and after a moment, shake their heads. Lisbon produces an image on her phone of the girl and the boy seems to have a slight recognition. He nods at her picture. “She was one of the waitresses, I think. I took the flowers to the house manager, though. Never talked to her. Uh, but my brother might have? He should be on shift tonight, his name is Alejo.”

—

“So, Jane, is it true that vampires can hypnotize people?”

The afternoon sun makes the tempered windows glow with a golden warmth. It’s not quite time for the men to leave, but the consultant emerged from his trance when the women returned from their day out.

“Rigsby, I could hypnotize people before I was a vampire,” he replies casually, tossing away a black teabag he’d half-steeped in a teal ceramic cup from the office pantry. 

It’s not the same since he died, but right now, he needs to feel the sensation of swallowing anything to keep his mind off the fact that he’s so thirsty and it’s been two days since his last feeding. The water tastes of nothing but wet and heat, which is particularly cruel given the fact its robust sweetness plays with his finer senses.

“Yeah? Show me.”

Jane chuckles into his tea, trying to stifle a larger laugh of amusement. There’s a hint of challenge in Rigsby’s request. As if knowing the vampire is attempting hypnosis will afford him any defense against the charms and mesmerism. 

Of course, Jane’s supernatural abilities make it almost too easy. That’s what he hates. Though it soothes his weighted conscience knowing the few he’s killed in his hunger trusted him implicitly. That they didn’t know what pain they were feeling.

“Alright, tough guy,” Jane says, putting the tea down to one side. He adjusts his cuffs and approaches the werewolf, who has his feet casually up at his desk, a half-smirk lazily lifting his lips at the promise of entertainment.

Jane’s voice is low, slow, as he puts a hand on the agent’s shoulder and speaks some words of reassurance coupled with some bio-feedback tricks he’d picked up over many, many years of confidence tricks. Rigsby’s boots drop heavy on the ground as his posture relaxes and his breathing evens out. 

It’s easy, familiar, as the consultant sways the man’s simpler mind – he could have done this in a blink with just a hint of eye contact and a firm command. But it’s more satisfying this way, the natural way.

And once he’s sure he has Rigsby charmed, Jane smirks wolfishly himself. “Good boy,” he purrs. “Now, sit.”

The charmed agent drops from his seat to the bullpen floor, staring at Jane.

“Speak.”

There’s a pause before Rigsby barks loudly like a dog would, sending Jane into a peal of laughter. The jovial sound shatters whatever modicum of focus Lisbon was maintaining over the case files as she marches up to the bizarre scene.

“Just what the hell is going on here? Did you just pull some vampire crap on Rigsby?”

Jane looks offended. “Please, like I would resort to something so crass. No, I hypnotized him the traditional way.”

“Well, unhypnotize him before he does something stupid like humping Van Pelt’s leg.”

“Now that is an interesting suggestion, Teresa.”

“Now, Jane.”

The consultant reaches down and gently scratches behind Rigsby’s ear, breaking the compulsion. The man jolts like he’s been woken from a deep slumber, and as he realizes what just happened, he stands furiously, ready to swing on the vampire.

“Stop it, now. Both of you,” Lisbon says, her arms out between the duo.

Rigsby is red and flustered. “You, I didn’t – that was harassment! Werewolf harassment!”

“So call Inhuman Resources,” Cho interrupts, helping their senior agent separate the two men. “C’mon, our turn to interrogate. Rigsby, don’t taunt the vampire.”

The man sputters, and Jane shrugs. “Just a little party trick.”

“Cho, I know Minelli thinks he might be useful to us, but if Mr. Jane tries that again, I give you permission to stake him. Just bring the ashes back in a little baggie for the evidence room.”

“Evidence? Of what?” Jane asks with mock offense.

“Of what,” she repeats with ire. “Of why I don’t trust working with vampires. C’mon, get going. Plum and Dove opens in a bit, and the florist's assistant has a brother who works there. If you're so sure about this flower angle, maybe you'll find something there.”